


Faith Healer

by punkascas (earlwyn)



Category: Supernatural
Genre: Alternate Universe - Canon Divergence, BAMF Castiel, Biting, Bottom Castiel, Bottom Dean, Canon Temporary Character Death, Canonical Child Abuse, Castiel & Sam Winchester Friendship, Community: deancasbigbang, Cuddling & Snuggling, Dean/Cas Big Bang Challenge 2015, Deviates From Canon, Domestic Castiel/Dean Winchester, Enemies to Friends to Lovers, Explicit Sexual Content, Firsts, From Sex to Love, Happy Ending, Implied/Referenced Self-Harm, Internalized Homophobia, John Winchester's A+ Parenting, Light Bondage, M/M, Magical Tattoos, Mild D/s, Mild Gore, Pining, Power Dynamics, Prostitute Dean, Prostitution, Recreational Drug Use, Sam and Dean's homoerotic codependence, Sexual Harassment, Sexual Inexperience, Slow Build, Top Castiel, Top Dean Winchester, Topping from the Bottom, Wall Sex
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2015-11-27
Updated: 2015-11-27
Packaged: 2018-05-02 21:58:44
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: Graphic Depictions Of Violence
Chapters: 15
Words: 75,087
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/5265206
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/earlwyn/pseuds/punkascas
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Dean hates faith healers. Scam artists and power-hungry dicks, all of them. But with Sam nearing the end of his rope and desperate for a way to keep their father’s last words from being true, Dean has no choice but to turn to the enigmatic and irascible Castiel, more tattooed junkie than spiritual leader, in hopes of finding a way to cure Sam. Yet Castiel hides dangerous secrets, and Dean soon learns they have more to worry about than just Yellow Eyes and Sam’s growing demonic abilities. War is coming. Canon divergent after 2.10.</p>
            </blockquote>





	1. Chapter 1

**Author's Note:**

> This is not the story I intended to write. This was the story I started to write four days before drafts were due, that was suppose to be only one-third its final length, and that I thought I could knock out quick and fun. Then it grew a plot and turned into this behemoth. 
> 
> My unending love, appreciation, and first born children to [t-eyla](http://t-eyla.tumblr.com/), [rainbofiction](http://rainbofiction.tumblr.com/), and [culumacilinte](http://culumacilinte.tumblr.com/) for beta-ing, hand-holding, and plot-figure-out-ing. You all deserve a giant plate of cookies, or possibly a bottle of good ~~whiskey~~ gin (you heathens), for putting up with me. Special thanks to [messier51](http://messier51.tumblr.com/) and [defilerwyrm](http://defilerwyrm.tumblr.com/) for talking to me about the metaphysics of grace. And extra shout-out to [amazinmango](http://amazinmango.tumblr.com/) whose emails and enthusiasm and general awesomeness helped keep my spirits up and keep me writing even through a cancer scare and surgery. 
> 
> PERFECT AMAZING ART created by the fantastic [mycolour](http://mycolour.tumblr.com/). I could not be more honoured to work with such an amazing artist. Thank you thank you thank you. 
> 
> You are also totally welcomed to come say hi and hang out with me at [punkascas](http://punkascas.tumblr.com/) on Tumblr.

 

 

He can't believe they're going through with this. Dean turns around on the rickety porch to glare at Sam. "Dude, this is bullshit."

Sam has his head down, hovering at the foot of the porch steps, clicking through the property records he emailed to himself this morning on his phone. "Come on, Dean, just knock," he says without bothering to look up. As though Dean's objections no longer warrant even a half-assed rebuttal.

Like Dean’s being the crazy one here. For the record: Dean isn't.

This plan was trouble the moment Sam suggested it. The current landscape hasn't improved his opinion. For one thing, the house is freaking creeps-ville. Some kind of Victorian monstrosity, ass-ugly violet paint contrasts with flaking teal trim, revealing patches of rotted wood. Junk mail litters the doorstep, abandoned and left to rot like the rest of the property. The porch begs to be replaced, boards bowing with every subtle shift of Dean's weight. Rusty nails protrude from crumbling joints. Barren rose bushes scrape up the sides of the house and claw onto the porch, closing it in and making everything feel more confined than it is.

No one lives here. _Nothing_ lives here, says the itch on the back of Dean's neck. At least nothing that lets you leave alive. Only a single sign suggests otherwise. Sam first saw it on the side of the highway about an hour out of Peoria. The cheap kind, poster board and metal spikes to plant it low against the ground. Dean kept missing it until Sam made him turn around and drive slow on the shoulder until the little sign popped into view. Blue with white lettering, it matches the wooden plaque screwed to the front door.

CASTIEL  
FAITH HEALER  
NOON - 8PM  
NO SUNDAYS. NO PHONE CALLS.

Dean doesn't like faith healers, and makes no secret about it. His jaw aches from clenching his teeth too hard. "Come on. There's probably no one even here. Let's go hit the road and find a beach. Sun and sand, Sammy. That's what we really need."

He knows it's a futile wish even before Sam looks up, expression the perfect mix of exasperation and injury. "Dean, you promised."

And yeah, yeah, he promised. If everything checked out—no weird occurrences, no strange deaths or unexplained activity—he said they could talk to the guy. Once. Just talk. But he hadn't expected the research to come back clean. A place like Ordinary, Illinois was begging to have some kind of supernatural activity: a haunting, cattle mutilation. _Something_.

The fact they can't find anything only proves more suspicious.

Except Sam doesn't buy that argument. "There's nothing in the newspapers in the last five years," Sam says, reading off his phone. He said the same thing this morning at breakfast and last night in the motel. "The house records show no suspicious activity. It was bought by a James Novak five years ago, and since then, all clean. No one we've talked to has had anything bad to say."

Which is _weird_ , Dean wants to argue. What kind of small town doesn't know its neighbors? The only thing they could get on the guy is that he's something of a hermit, and, depending on who they spoke to, once helped the friend of a friend or the husband of a co-worker's sister.

A real bonafide miracle worker, if you believe in that sort of thing.

Dean doesn't. "I just don't want you to get your hopes up, man."

"I'm not."

But Dean knows Sam. Sam has his eyes locked on Dean with stubborn insistence, elastic face now carved from the stone of Winchester tenacity; determination nothing more than a thin excuse for desperation. Sam is going to do what Sam thinks he needs to do, with or without Dean. In this moment, it makes Sam look like Dad, and for some reason that makes a lump in Dean's throat ache.

Whenever someone in their family decides that their last option is their best option, bad shit happens. But Dean's spent 27 years knowing his concerns fall on deaf ears. "Yeah, well. Come on then. This was your idea."

He doesn't realize his hand has snaked around to check if the gun is still tucked into the back of his jeans until Sam clamps over his wrist to stop him. Standing right behind Dean's shoulder, Sam lets out a gusty sigh of the oppressed and leans over Dean to knock hard against the door.

"I'm just being prepared," Dean mutters.

"You're going to be polite," Sam mutters back.

Dean snorts—because _yeah_ , that'll happen—but then Sammy's hand tightens on his wrist as a set of bolts begin to click open, tugging Dean a step closer to his side. It reminds him of the way Sam used to cling to him as a little kid, pulling on Dean's clothes and limbs, wanting hugs and stories read and the comfort of closeness. Back before Sam decided that "normal" doesn't mean cuddling with your big brother.

The door opens with a jolt, catching on the latched chain. A body appears. In the dim light of the house, Castiel the Faith Healer looks to be about at height with Dean, maybe an inch or so shorter. Little more than the hard edge of an unshaven jaw shows through the narrow opening of the door, a mop of shaggy dark hair plastered to a pale forehead, and one bloodshot, killer blue eye.

The intensity of that eye makes the hair on the back of Dean's neck rise. When Sam was a baby, Dean used to read to him from the _Adventures of Frog and Toad_. Dean has the sudden memory that in one story, Frog and Toad come across a snake who greets them with an ominous, _hello, lunch_. Dean would wager his last hundred dollars that Castiel the Faith Healer has been watching them from somewhere inside the house, plotting a similar opening line.

"Yes?"

Or maybe blunt rudeness is more this guy's style. His voice goes deep like good whiskey, rough like the curl of smoke. Combine that with the red-rim glaze over the dude's eyes, and Dean blinks in surprise. Change that bet from snake to _baked_. The guy looks to be a huge stoner.  

Dean sucks up a pointed whiff of air in the guy's direction, ignoring Sam's mortified glance and the slow, calculating inspection that single blue eye gives him. He can't get anything from the guy or the house except for maybe a strange metallic scent, like sparks from a car battery.

"Hi," Sam chirps with stumbling enthusiasm, elbowing Dean in the ribs, "sorry, hi." His baby brother smiles, dimples in full force. "I'm Sam, and this is my brother Dean." Dean makes an alarmed sound at the use of their real names but Sam barrels on as if nothing happened. "Are you Castiel? I saw your sign by the highway and I'd really like to talk to you. I could really use your help."

The blue eye swivels its attention to Sam. It takes him in, earnest face and floppy hair and broad shoulders hunched in to make him seem smaller. The lines of Sam's body almost reek with the plea for help, and Dean hates it. The blue eye fastens on Dean again for a brief moment before it takes in both of them.

"No."

The door slams shut in their faces before Dean can register that Castiel _turned Sam down_.

Dean stares in dumb silence while he works past the abrupt shock well enough to form words. "Okay, what the hell just happened?" Of all possible outcomes, Castiel rejecting them on first sight is not allowed to be one.

"I mean. People said he was kind of reclusive. I guess he's not taking on new business," Sam hedges, which is way too generous an assessment for Dean. "Either that, or he doesn't like strangers. Maybe we need someone from town to introduce us?"

No, okay, no. Dean has not spent two days in a shitty motel that believes in turning on the heat in October no matter the actual outside air temperature, and has not spent the last three weeks watching Sam alternatively brood or pace under the burden of believing something's wrong with him, to be turned down at the door. Fuck that shit. "Dude's not the freaking Queen of England. I'm not giving him a freaking character reference first."

Twisting free from Sam's loose grasp, Dean pounds his fist on the door, and keeps pounding until it lurches open again. That same blue eye appears, now half-hidden under a low, disgruntled brow. "Hi, you want to try that again?" Dean invites with as much graciousness as possible.

"What," Castiel rasps, the perfect balance between clueless stoner and impervious guard dog.

The smile Dean gives him is all teeth, wide and white like a shark. "My brother came here for your help so we're going to come in and talk to you and you're going to listen to what he has to say."

Castiel helping was never the plan. In fact it was the absolute opposite of the plan. But Dean isn't going to stand here and let some douche-nozzle tear away Sam's last thread of hope just because he's feeling anti-social today.

The blue eye tilts behind the crack of the door, bringing into view the sharp line of a cheekbone and a pink corner of a mouth. It concentrates its eerie focus on Dean.

"I don't think you understand how this works," Castiel says, enunciating with slow precision. "This is capitalism, not a charity. I have the right to turn away any business as I see fit." The unexpected bite behind the words rankles. Not many people have the balls to turn Dean down, let alone sass him back while doing it. "I decline your business. Now go away." The blatant look of disgust Castiel gives Sam punches the air from Dean's lungs. "Get off my property or I will summon a law enforcement officer to remove you at cost."

This time the door shuts with a whisper, the lock clicking closed with impossible finality.

 

* * *

 

"I just don't understand."

Sitting in the Impala outside the house, Sam keeps staring down at his hands, opening and closing his fingers like he can conjure the answers in his palms with enough practice. Dean drums his fingers against the steering wheel, torn between just gunning the engine or blasting through the front door to punch Castiel in his smug, judgmental face.

"What's to understand? So the dude's a jerk."

Sam shakes his head. "But the way he looked at me . . ."

"Yeah. _Jerk_ ," Dean emphasizes. He lifts his elbow from the back of the seat and sticks the keys in the ignition. "Look, sucks that it didn't work out. But I for one am glad we got to skip an hour of small talk and jumped straight to: guy's a dick; let's go eat."

Sam's eyebrows are bunched together over his nose, making sad, tiny lines appear around the corners of his eyes and his down-turned mouth. "But what if he _knows_ , Dean? What if he knows that there's something really wrong with me? What if that's why he wouldn't even talk to me?"

"What?" Dean recoils with a scowl, stomping his foot on the clutch and revving the engine. "There's nothing wrong with you."

"Dean, you know what Dad said," Sam presses, eyes going big and wide with conviction. "You know what Scott Carey said. About Yellow Eyes. About him having plans for us. All the kids. If I'm going to become something evil—"

This conversation is suddenly nothing Dean wants to have. "You're not." He shifts gears, easing the Impala away from the curb, and flicks on the stereo. The soothing guitar strains of Deep Purple erupt from the speakers, drowning out everything else.

Except the hollow ring in Sam's voice as he gets in the last word. "What if we don't have a choice?"

 

* * *

 

Ordinary, Illinois, with its population of less than 1500 people, has a whopping total of two bars and one diner to choose from. The Copper Kettle should be considered more of a restaurant than a diner. The leather booths are sticky enough to qualify for a diner, and the tables just as greasy. But the menu lists a small beer selection. Dean pulls the Impala into a parking space just in time for the six o'clock dinner rush, as well as happy hour.

Food may be the answer to Dean's mood, but alcohol is not the solution to Sam's. Three orders of half-off hot wings for Dean, and twelve beers and counting for Sam, and Sam droops into a sloppy, combative drunk.

"But I just can't," Sam mumbles into the table, disconsolate and unintelligible, head lolling against his too-long, orangutan arm. "The dreams. They keep happening, and I can't make them stop, and what am I supposed to do? Just never sleep again?" He paws at Dean's sleeve, eyes round and glassy as he tries to peer up at Dean without relying on any neck muscles. "Dean. What am I suppose to do, Dean? What're you gonna do?"

Dean watches Sam and concentrates on not feeling anything. "Dump your drunk ass into bed, sasquatch, that's what I'm going to do."

"No. No." Sam waggles his head from side to side like a dog shaking off water. "What're you gonna _do_? You're gonna—you gotta do what Dad says, Dean."

Snatching his arm away from Sam, Dean ignores the puppyish look of hurt that flashes across his face. "No. I'm not. And I'm not talking about this."

Signaling for the waitress to bring the check, he digs the last three crumpled twenties out of his wallet to throw down next to Sam's collection of empty beer bottles. Sam shoves at him clumsily when Dean bends down to haul him up from the booth. Lugging a depressed and drunken Sammy around was easier when Sam was fifteen and Dean still had the height and strength advantage. He manages to get Sam's arms draped around his neck well enough that he can half-drag, half-carry him towards the door, trying to tune out Sam's mournful mumbling.

"If he didn't cure me, Dean, then you gotta. Everyone else can see it about me and you're gonna too. One day you're gonna . . . You gotta do it. Gotta kill me."

Fending off Sam's grabby hands, he dumps him into the Impala and watches Sam curl up against the window.

A steady thrum of anger vibrates inside his chest, in tune with the rumble of the road as he drives them back to the motel. Sam sees Castiel as his second-to-last option to fix whatever Yellow Eyes plans for him, with Dean as the final solution. Castiel might be nothing more than a sham, but Dean will die before he lets a bullet be the answer to Sam's problem. Given his history of doing for himself what he thinks others won't do for him, Sammy might be the one who eventually decides to pull the trigger.

Dean punches the steering wheel. Fuck Castiel. Dean is going to wrangle his passed out brother into bed and then he's going to hunt that son of bitch down. There's no way he's letting Scott Carey or Yellow Eyes or a fucking _faith healer_ dictate what Sam is or isn't.

 

* * *

 

The sign on Castiel's door advertises business hours end at eight. Dean stands before the sagging porch a little after 10:30 at night. A steady throb of what sounds like fuck-awful electronica pulses from somewhere in the house. Craning his head back, Dean gazes up at the distant attic window.

Tucked under the sloping eaves of the roof, a circular stained glass window dominates the top third of the house. A soft flickering glow of what must be candles dances across the colored panes of glass. It banishes the night in a glorious sunburst of ruby red and deep blue and burnished gold, leaving jeweled-tone afterimages spiraling behind Dean's eyelids. A dark silhouette passes beyond the window every few moments as it crisscrosses the room. After he stares for a while, he detects the subtle movement of a head jerking in time to the pulsating beat of the music.

A grin catches across Dean's face despite himself. Now that shit's just embarrassing. Who knew the right honorable Castiel danced?

Hobbling onto the porch, taking care to jump the boards that seem most at risk of breaking, Dean bangs a fist against the door.  He keeps banging every couple minutes or so, counting to ninety in his head between rounds of knocks. It takes several minutes but eventually he gets a reply shouted through the wood.

"Read the sign. Come back during hours."

"Castiel? Open up, it's Dean. From this afternoon." He raps his knuckles against the door again on reflex, and then rolls his eyes at himself. As if not knocking enough is the reason Castiel hasn't opened the door yet. "I got to speak with you."

Only from an amazing force of will power does he not stick his ear against the door to listen for sounds inside.  The pulse of a drum machine echoes through the door but nothing else. He can't tell if Castiel is moving or thinking or even still breathing. His own breaths puff loudly in the quiet. After a few more seconds, Dean sighs. "Come on, man. Please? It's important."

When he speaks next, Castiel sounds as though he's standing right behind the door, his voice a low bass in contrast to the music. "It's always important."

Dean knows he's edging into begging territory, but dammit, Castiel needs to listen. " _Please_? I'll double your normal rate."

A soft sound that might be a laugh come from the other side of the door. "You don't know what my normal rate is."

"Kind of gives you carte blanche then, doesn't it?" After a second, the bolts of the locks click open and Dean punches the air in victory. The chain slithers free of its latch and then Dean's grinning into the frowning face of Castiel. "Hey, there's a sucker born every minute, am I right?"

"That may apply to both of us right now," is all Castiel says as he steps aside to let Dean enter.

The house, of what Dean can see in the dim light, seems bigger than it looks from the outside, replete with a formal entryway and what must be original woodwork. A thick layer of dust covers the floor. Castiel leads him out of the main room and down a narrow corridor. Electricity must have insulted the guy's mother once because Castiel makes no effort to flip on a switch or a lamp anywhere. Dean does his best not to trip but still bangs his shin into the leg of a low-set table set next to the doorway of a sitting room.  A strong hand closes around his arm to guide him the rest of the way and shoves him into the plush seat of a carved wingback chair. Castiel tugs the cord of a desk lamp as he takes the chair across from Dean, their knees knocking in the cramped space. It's one of those old green library lamps from the 40s and it casts a warm circle of light over their legs, cutting Castiel's face half in shadow.

The bastard looks amused. "I forgot that most don't have night vision as good as mine."

Dean scowls and rubs at his shin. "My night vision's fine. It ever occur to you that strangers won't know your furniture placement as well as you do?"

Castiel shrugs. He has his feet tucked under him, knees bent Indian-style, clad in black sweat pants. His blue bathrobe gapes open at the chest, revealing tight skin stretched over a narrow sternum and strong pectoral muscles. Strange swirls of ink twist around Castiel's neck like a collar. The same thick black lines decorate the backs of his hands, slinking up his arms to disappear into the cuffs of his robe.

If Dean didn't know any better, he would guess that the tattoos are some kind of language. Runes, maybe. Or sigils. But none he's ever seen before.

He realizes Castiel is staring at him, a blank, expectant expression on his face like someone hit pause on Castiel's mental cassette tape. Dean's plan extended as far as this: find Castiel; make him listen. But now that he's sitting in Castiel's strange living room festooned with antiques and wall-to-wall books and so much dust Dean thinks he might spontaneously develop asthma, the technicalities of making Castiel listen escape him.

"So about my brother," Dean starts, in hopes that Castiel will pick up the topic for himself. All he gets in return is that same still, focused stare. "Okay, look." He leans forward to rest his elbows on his knees. "Sam's a good kid, okay? He's—he's the best kid. And we've been going through some stuff lately and he just, he really wants to talk to you. If you still don't want to help after you've talked to him, that's your call. But at least _talk_ to him."

Castiel keeps on that measured stare. Dean stares back, unwilling to back down. After a few long seconds, Castiel mercifully looks away. "I cannot help your brother. That's why I refused." After a pause, as if the words are foreign, he adds, "I'm . . . sorry."

"You're sorry?" Dean scoffs. "You don't even know what's wrong with him."

This whole thing was stupid. Of course a faith healer who can't heal isn’t going to take on someone who’s really sick. Better off being an asshole and driving away actual needy people. "You can't really do anything, can you?" he asks, raising an eyebrow in challenge. "I've met faith healers before. Not a single one's been legit."

Castiel blinks as if surprised. "You don't think faith comes at a price? That it only gives and never takes?"

Just what the hell that means, Dean has no idea. "I think faith's for people who believe in fairy tales. Me, I trust what I can see."

He pushes up from the chair, ready to leave, when strong fingers curl around his wrist. Tugging doesn't dislodge the grip or budge Castiel, who seems to have become as solid as stone. Dean would probably pull his own arm out of his socket before he'd break that gentle but immovable grasp. "What—" he starts, but as soon as he stops resisting, Castiel turns his hand over to cradle it in his palm. His fingers trail feather-light over the back of Dean's hand, across his knuckles and down his fingers.

The fucked up thing is, he can _feel_ the bones twisting, breaking and rejoining. Warm pressure suffuses his joints, but no pain. He stares down incomprehensibly at where his fingers, once crooked from countless breaks and fistfights, now lie straight atop Castiel's palm.

Healed.

As soon as Castiel releases his hand, Dean stumbles back and draws his gun, aiming it square between Castiel's eyes. Castiel, the idiot, just blinks at him. "Faith comes at a price, Dean. But that doesn't mean there aren't still things worth believing in."

"What the fuck?" Dean gasps, clenching his muscles to steady the gun. If he pretends his hand isn't shaking, Castiel can damn well pretend along too. "What the hell are you?"

Castiel tilts his head to the side like a confused bird. "I am, as you say, 'legit'. Is that not what you wanted?"

Nothing about this is what Dean wanted. He didn't want Sam to get mixed up with a faith healer. Roy Le Grange may have been a year ago, but Dean remembers the horror of seeing that reaper, of knowing that some innocent guy died to give him a new heart. That then didn't feel like what Castiel just did. One moment, Dean's heart hadn't been able to keep him upright and walking, and the next, he was fine, as strong as he'd ever been. With Castiel he could _feel_ Castiel reshaping his fingers, snapping the joints into proper alignment and knitting together the cartilage and muscle around the mended bones.

That kind of power shouldn't be natural. Isn't natural.

"If you shoot me, Dean," Castiel says, placid as ever, "I cannot meet with you and your brother tomorrow at noon." Before he knows what's happening, Castiel has that soft-iron grip around his wrist again, prying the gun free from Dean's hand, and Dean is being shepherded towards the hallway. "Return tomorrow with your brother," Castiel is saying as he guides Dean out the door. "At noon, Dean. Do not forget." Castiel gives him a stern look, as though he suspects Dean is prone to tardiness, and then tucks the gun back into the waistband of Dean's jeans.

Dean stands alone in the dark of Castiel's porch for a long time. No matter how many times he goes over it in his head, he can't figure out what the fuck just happened. 


	2. Chapter 2

Noon comes too soon for Dean's liking. Sam refused to shut up all morning, babbling instead like a giddy schoolgirl with a crush. "Holy shit. He really healed you? I can't believe it. This is amazing." Dean threatened to drive them straight out of town if Sam used the phrase, _it's a miracle_.

As they walk towards the porch, Dean glances up to the stained glass window, a nauseous roll of anxiety cramping his stomach. No dark silhouette peers down at them. But that doesn't mean they aren't still being observed.

Castiel welcomes them into the house without a word, leaving the door open and retreating down the corridor to the same sitting room he led Dean into last night. In the light of day, the damage to the interior is more obvious. Old wallpaper curls off the walls, matching the yellow water stains that decorate the high ceiling. Various antiques clutter the space, some in harsh disrepair, as if someone or something smashed them. Other whole rooms sit vacant of everything but dust.

It once must have been a beautiful house. Castiel may or may not be able to heal bones but he clearly knows nothing about home repair.

The sitting room must be where Castiel sees most of his clients. It's in better shape than the rest of the house. The furniture here is old. Some of it seems original to the house, like the pair of wingback chairs Castiel sat Dean in last night, but some newer than that. A flannel blue couch shoved under the window looks like it came from the 1980s, worn and over-stuffed and the best thing in the world to nap on. Not that Dean thinks Castiel is the type to appreciate that. Books line the walls, titles written in Latin and Greek and Hebrew, and something that looks like it may be Egyptian hieroglyphs. A glass cabinet against one wall holds nothing but scrolls, so old they seem like they’d crumble with one touch. In a weird way it almost reminds Dean of Bobby's house.

A hunter's house.

His toe nudges back the corner of the rug once Castiel seats them on the couch, and yeah. There's a devil's trap etched into the hardwood. That would explain why they can't find any supernatural activity present in this town, if a hunter lives here. Even if it opens more questions about who or what Castiel is. He wonders where Castiel keeps his weapons stash.

Castiel doesn't seem to believe in clothing. He has on the same tatty blue bathrobe and dark sweat pants, the lack of shirt obvious when he takes the chair across from Dean and Sam. A half-finished joint smokes between Castiel's fingertips, as though he's forgotten that it's there. The smell clouds with the stench of incense in the air.

"Hello, Dean. Hello, Sam," Castiel intones after he sits down, the first thing he's said. "I heard you wished to speak with me." He holds up a hand when Sam leans forward to burst into what is probably a rehearsed speech. "Before you begin, I must repeat. As I informed your brother last night, I can't help you. I know no cure for what you have."

Sam sends him a betrayed look and mouths, _you knew_? Dean focuses his glare on Castiel. Way to get this meeting off to a great start. "Can you at least hear him out? You said last night you would."

Castiel tilts his head in what might be either acquiescence or confusion. "I can heal the bones in your wrist if you would like," he says to Sam. "But I doubt that's why you sought me out."

"No. Yeah. Uhm. Thanks." Sam clears his throat and rubs the cast along his thigh in a nervous gesture. "That'd be great. The cast isn't suppose to come off for another few weeks. So that'd be great. But no. That's not what I was going to ask your help with."

"You are concerned about corruption."

Sam glances at him, but Dean doesn't have a response for that either. Corruption isn't a word he'd apply to Sam. "My brother's not corrupt."

Castiel waves off the protest, joint passing before his face. He stops to suck a large drag from it. When he speaks, he keeps his voice tight to hold in the smoke, sounding bored. "It is a corruption. To both your body and your soul, Sam. If it were just a physical complication, I might be able to help. But souls—it takes great power and specificity to heal a soul. Even if I were to try to burn the corruption out of you, the chance is that I would kill you in the process."

"My soul's corrupt?" Next to him on the couch, Sam's shoulders bow forward as Sam curls in on himself. He sounds all of eight years old. "Are you sure?"

"No way," Dean argues. "No one can be sure about that. Souls aren't real."

Castiel cocks his head at Dean with a squinty-eyed glare. "Don't blaspheme, Dean," he croaks, curls of smoke snaking from his nostrils like a disheveled, blue-eyed dragon. "Souls are very real. You have a bright soul, Sam. One of the brightest I've ever seen. You and your brother both. Though if he chooses not to act out its finer qualities . . . "

"Hey!" Dean snaps. That sounded like a weird religious version of an insult. He gets distracted by Sam slumping forward on the couch, elbows on knees, his fingers carding through his hair.

"And you don't—. You can't . . . fix me?" Sam implores, staring at Castiel. "Do you know what it is?"

"It’s demonic. You have been touched by a demon and so corrupted." Castiel at least has the grace to look uncomfortable after dropping that bombshell. "I don't suppose you know how you were infected."

It isn't true. It can't be true. Any moment now Sam is going to pull himself together and explain to Castiel with all his college-boy logic why that's pure, Grade A bullshit. But Sam just sits there, head in his hands, staring at the floor like he _believes_ it. Healed heart or not, Dean thinks it might explode right now in his chest from either rage or panic. "Sammy, say something!" He shoves at Sam's shoulder but all Sam does is turn his face away. "Sam, tell him. Tell him you're not demonic. Tell him you didn't do anything."

Because Sammy wouldn't. Sammy couldn't. Sam makes stupid mistakes and sometimes he goes too far, but he wouldn't do this. Except Dad did. Dad made a deal. After everything he taught them. Grief makes Dean's throat swell closed. "Sammy, come on," he begs, one last shot, pleading with Sam to look him in the eyes. "Tell me you didn't . . . "

Sam explodes, throwing Dean's concerned hand off his shoulder. His eyes look wet. "No, Dean! I didn't fucking _do_ anything." From the way Sam's voice cracks, Dean believes him. He wants to believe him. "I don't know why the visions started. They just did. The first one was about Jess dying. I _told_ you."

"You have visions?" Castiel asks, a sudden vigilance to his posture. "Do you have other powers?"

As far as Dean knows, the psychic visions are the only things that plague Sam. Except Sam swallows and says, "Uhm. Yeah. Once I moved this wardrobe that was trapping me." He throws a guilty look at Dean. "With my mind."

"Right," Dean breathes, chest tight. Sarcasm proves to be the safest refuge. "Because that's not something you should share with the class."

"You were going to die, Dean! I didn't—I didn't mean to."

"Stop talking now," Castiel commands, "both of you." His finger rubs the tip of his chin, like he considers the two of them fascinating specimens. "Later there will be time for you to have your interpersonal squabbles. When you're not paying me by the hour." Decision apparently made, he drops his hand from his face. "Sam, I would like to run some tests with you. They may help identify what you may or may not be." Sam nods, overeager. Castiel focuses that electric gaze on Dean, a strange smile playing over his mouth. "Dean, if you investigate the hall closet, you will find some of my knife collection to entertain yourself with, if you wish."

 

* * *

 

Dean hopes Castiel meant _play with my knives_ as a weird gesture of welcome and not as some kind of suggestion that Dean should stab himself so Castiel can be rid of him. He had been wondering what kind of weaponry Castiel owned, if the guy is in fact a hunter. The collection doesn't disappoint. By Dean's count, there must be over thirty blades, organized by length, material, and age. He pulls out a sword with a brass handle, dated 1880 according to the label on the shelf, the blade made from solid iron. It's heavy, even once removed from its leather scabbard. Dean doesn't know a lot about knives or swords, but it's obvious this thing has been well cared for, the leather oiled and the blade sharpened and kept free from rust. He imitates a few karate chops, striking a series of poses against fake enemies, while waiting for Sam and Castiel to return from wherever they disappeared to upstairs.

When they do make it downstairs, Sam looks better than he did half an hour ago. Though stress lines still tug at his eyes, his smile when he sees Dean is less brittle, like whatever tests Castiel ran re-instilled some confidence. Fresh gauze wraps around Sam's forearm but Sam brushes off Dean's concern with a bashful whisper, "I offered."

They take their seats in the sitting room, Sam and Dean on the couch, and Castiel in the chair across from them. Castiel once again folds his feet under him to sit cross-legged, like a weird tattooed guru holding court. A line still bisects his brows, an offended expression that Dean is coming to realize is Castiel's thinking face. "Do you know what a cambion is, Sam?"

"Uhm, yeah," Sam says. "They're usually considered the offspring of a demon and a human." He glances at Dean for back-up, like Dean's the one who spent their teenage years salivating over musty books at the library. "Is that—are you saying that's what I am?"

Castiel gives a shake of his head. "I don't think you're a cambion. While your powers are similar, theirs are far stronger and they manifest at birth. You said yours didn't come until later."

"Yeah. The dreams didn't start until . . . " Sam pauses. "I'm not sure actually. The first time I started to pay attention to them, it was six months before I lost someone." Sam winces, mouth twisting into a grimace. "She died. The dreams were about her death. It was too unusual to be a coincidence."

"Clairvoyance may develop during puberty. Heightened moments of emotion can also trigger supernatural ability to manifest or can increase the intensity of a vision. But it’s highly unusual for the onset of psychic powers to appear that suddenly, let alone in conjunction with other abilities like telekinesis," Castiel says. "Based on what I've observed, I'm positive that your powers derive from demonic influence, but to what degree and at what point the corruption occurred, I can't say. As it stands—"

"Our mom was killed by a demon," Dean interrupts, and watches as Castiel looks baffled by how to respond.

"That sounds . . . regrettable?"

Dean bites back the obvious retort of _no shit, Sherlock_. It's clear that Castiel must have been raised in a box with limited human contact. "In Sam's nursery," he gets out through gritted teeth. "She burned on the ceiling of his nursery. So the demon had to be in there with them. With Sam. Maybe that's when—the corruption or whatever happened."

"It's possible," Castiel murmurs, and stares hard into space for several seconds. With a blink, he jerks his head up, re-focusing. "Nevertheless. If I tried to cleanse the demonic effects from your soul, I may destroy your soul along with it." His eyes find Sam's, and then Dean's, and this time he does look remorseful. "I'm sorry. I don't know a cure. I have no way to help you."

Yeah. A painful heaviness settles across Dean's shoulders. First he lost his mom to Yellow Eyes, then Dad, and now it might take Sam too. He swallows, but he can't bring himself to push to his feet just yet, the yoke of Castiel's prognosis weighing his bones into the ground.

"You've got to," Sam says suddenly. "You know this stuff. There's got to be something you can do." And somewhat hysterically Dean thinks to himself, _help us, Obi-Wan Kenobi, you're our only hope_.

Castiel sighs and claws his fingers through his hair, the first sign of uncontrolled emotion Dean's witnessed from him. "Sam, I can't. You're like nothing I've ever seen, and trust me, that is _rare_. Even if I wanted to help you, the methods to do so don't exist. I don't know what to do."

"Try." Two pairs of eyes swivel towards him, but Dean is surprised as anyone to hear his own voice echo back. He clenches his fingers into his thighs and leans forward to stare down Castiel. "If you can't help us, no one can. Make something up if you have to. That demon took both my mom and my dad. I'm not letting it take my brother."

Castiel's chin lifts like Dean just issued a challenge. Dean holds his gaze, unblinking. A deep ring of blue limns Castiel's irises, dark wisps like a starburst radiating from his pupil, but only in his left eye.

"All right," Castiel says after a long moment. Dean thinks his whole chest might cave in from the force of his relieved exhale. "But this will not be easy. I will need to see Sam at least once a day to determine any progress, if not several times per day. The process may take months."

Sam jostles against Dean's side, excitement bobbing his head in eager agreement. "Yeah, of course. Whatever you need."

 

* * *

 

Whatever Castiel needs, apparently, is for Sam to move in with him. "Like hell," Dean objects, fists bouncing on his thighs. "Over my dead body. No one said anything about Sammy staying here permanently."

"Except I just _did_ ," Castiel retorts, mouth slanting into an irritated slash, "when I invited Sam to do that very thing. It doesn’t need to be permanent. When I cure Sam or when I determine that the best of my abilities have failed, he will be free to return to you."

"So, what, you're just going to hold him here like some prisoner?" He stabs a finger at Castiel's head. "Aren't you suppose to be a man of God or some bullshit?"

Castiel makes an impressive display of trying to roll his eyes by rolling his entire head. Like he never learned to separate one muscle group from the other. "You're obviously ignorant of much of Christianity's history if you think those two things are mutually exclusive."

"Dean, I don't mind," Sam interrupts, with the gall to sound like he's sincerely trying to be helpful. It burns Dean's outrage hotter. He vaults off the couch, feet taking him halfway across the room before he can think where he's going.

"Oh great! Just what I need. Another excuse for you to run away!"

Sam half-rises, already protesting a wounded, "Dean—!", while Castiel rummages in the pocket of his robe for a cigarette case. He lights a new joint, takes one large hit, and then with a forceful authority Dean didn't know he had in him, Castiel barks, "Sit down. Be quiet. Both of you."  

Years of John Winchester's parenting have left Dean helpless under that tone of voice. His knees try to buckle on reflex, but he persuades them to stumble him back to the couch before he collapses.

Castiel regards them over the joint with hooded, phlegmatic eyes. "I am not making Sam my prisoner," he begins, and then gives a low growl of warning in the back of his throat when Dean opens his mouth to interrupt. "He would be free to come and go as he pleases. To conduct his life as he wants. But this is the only way I see to be effective. It will let me monitor his well-being on a daily basis, and will allow me to treat him more easily around my other clients."

Turning to Sam, Castiel softens his expression. "My house has more than enough room for an additional person. The bedrooms on the second floor are empty, as you saw, and as I have my own facilities in the attic, the bathroom on that floor would be for your private use as well. I have no dietary requirements or irritants, no opinions on the hours that you keep or noise level you prefer, and by nature I am reclusive and private. I doubt we would need to antagonize each other. The only thing I ask in return is that you cover your share of the rent and the utilities you use in addition to my standard fees of business."

"Uhm—thank you," Sam says, polite after a pause. He rubs at his legs, seeming uncertain. "That's a really generous offer. Uhm. Could you install wifi?" When Castiel inclines his head in acknowledgement, Sam turns a questioning look Dean's way. "Okay. Cool. Uhm. Dean?"

Staying in this town for another few weeks chafes against Dean's good sense. Staying in the motel without Sam is out of the question.  He crosses his arms over his chest. "I'm not leaving my brother here alone with you."

Sam lets out a tired sigh, but Castiel looks thoughtful. "Do you want my help or not?"

For most people, that would come across like an ultimatum, but something in how Castiel says it makes it sound like a sincere question. Dean sucks in his lips, unsure of how to explain why he can't just let Sammy go. How he already lost Sam for years when Sam ran away to California, and how he only just got him back. How he wouldn't even know how to take the next step, or in which direction, if he left this house without Sam following him. How Sam means everything to him, and how, without that point of contact, Dean loses not just his entire world but his entire sense of self too. If not with Sam, on the road, he doesn't know who he is or where he belongs anymore.

Licking over his teeth, he meets Castiel's eyes. "Honestly? Not really. I'd rather take my brother on vacation, corrupt soul or not. I'd rather just ignore all of this. Pretend like it wasn't happening." Except the choice is to save Sam or kill Sam, and that's really no choice at all. "But I can't. So here I am, trying to do my best with what I got." He swallows. "I can't walk away from him. I _don't_ walk away from him. Not ever."

From the corner of his eye, he can see Sam giving him a soft, sad look. But Castiel remains contemplative, sipping small smoke-streams from the joint. Eventually he says, "Upstairs, there are three bedrooms. One I require to work with Sam on his healing. One I thought Sam would take as his room. But that leaves the third for you, Dean, if you would prefer to join Sam during his stay here."

That might be the best compromise he's going to get. It still doesn't come anywhere close to what he wants—Sam safe, the two of them together, maybe a beach and one of those cocktails with the little umbrellas, maybe with a cute Latina girl to serve it. But between Castiel's level tone and Sam's hopeful face, Dean knows he can't turn the offer down.

"Yeah. Okay."

Two days later, Dean hauls his duffle from the trunk of the Impala to move into the first house he's lived in since he was four years old. 

 

* * *

 

Roy Le Grange drew in huge crowds to witness the miracles he performed. Castiel runs his business by a different model. From what Dean can tell from the glimpses he catches of people coming and going over the first couple weeks, or the snatches of conversations he overhears spilling out from the sitting room, to those who believe Castiel operates as some kind of mystical version of a doctor. With the nearest hospital thirty miles away, the local faith healer guarantees the convenience and the immediate results real medical treatment can't.

"So, hey, hey," Dean quips to Sam on their third day living with Castiel. "Do you think he accepts all major forms of insurance or do you think he's the type to have a special deal with just like Blue Cross Blue Shield?" The corners of Sam's mouth curve down in bleeding heart liberalism, and Dean beats a strategic retreat before Sam tries to tell him about the insurance crisis in America and the perils of Big Medicine.

On average Castiel draws in three or four people each day requesting his services. Some are regulars from town who want help with small things: a bad cut, chronic migraines, relief from an old sports injury still acting up. But the majority of his client base are strangers from out of town, like Dean and Sam, a relative or a friend of a friend or a freaking _message board_ alerting them to Castiel's powers. The people who travel the farthest often have the most severe complaints. Cancer. Inoperable brain tumor.

Blindness.

Dean doesn't see Castiel restore her sight, but he hears the woman's muffled sobs of gratitude after Castiel declares her healed.

Despite the satisfied customers who seem to trail out of Castiel's sitting room on a constant basis, Dean refuses to consider himself a convert. Sure, Castiel might have straightened Dean's crooked fingers and supposedly he mended the bones in Sam's wrist well enough for Sam to lose the cast early. But everyone knows looks can be deceiving. On first glance, Roy Le Grange appeared to be the real deal too. If something seems too good to be true, it probably is, and Dean determines to crack Castiel's game plan.

It doesn't help that Sam has fallen for Castiel's sales pitch hook, line, and sinker. As promised when Castiel agreed to cure Sam, he and Sam meet at least once per day in the spare third bedroom. The time of day or length of appointment differs in accordance with whatever schedule the two of them arrange, independent of and unconcerned with Dean's input.

The first time Dean tries to follow Sam upstairs for one of their appointments, Castiel manages to lodge himself in the doorway between Dean and the room, citing, of all things, client freaking confidentiality.

"I pledge it to everyone I see. I don't understand why I should accord Sam less if he desires the privacy," Castiel explains with aggravating placidity, bracing a rock-solid hand against Dean's chest when Dean tries to barge his way in anyway.

One thing Dean could say for the guy: beneath that formless bathrobe, Castiel's hiding some impressive muscles. Dean would have as much chance barreling through a brick wall as breaking through Castiel's arm. Wrapping his fingers around Castiel's wrist, he ducks over Castiel's shoulder to try to signal Sam "Sammy, hey. Come on. Tell him."

But Sam has on that expression Dean remembers from when Sam was twelve and thirteen. That awkward, disgruntled, shamefaced refusal to meet Dean's eyes, like when Dean used to threaten to beat up the douchebag middle schoolers who made fun of Sam's ill-fitting clothes or new kid status. "It's okay, Dean. Really. You can go downstairs. I'll see you after, okay?"

Fuck, it even sounds the same. Like when Sam would chastise Dean to go back to class or to go wait for him under the bleachers or to just _go away period, Dean, God._   

Back then, Sam couldn't escape him forever. Whether on the road, or stuck in motels without Dad, it was always the two of them, Dean and Sammy, A-side and B-side. Now, Sam turns to his laptop when he has questions. Sam finds entertainment through his phone or by raiding Castiel's library for research fodder from everything like Sam's own condition to anthropology textbooks on early hominids to 20th century history. He lugs around obscure occult titles such as _The Five Books of Mystery: Original Sourcebook for Enochian Magic_ and _Purification: the Private Diary of Father Max Thompson_ and suddenly starts trying to discuss this one Poli Sci class he took at Stanford or some project he and Jess did for Abnormal Psych. They’re no conversations Dean has ever had before with Sam, and the new-found dissonance breaks his brain. What's a measly GED and the memorized lyrics to every Bon Jovi song compared to the way Castiel can debate the metaphysics behind spell work or listen for hours as Sam describes the benefits of a liberal arts education versus specializing in technical school.

Now, when Dean goes to bed, he sleeps in a room across the hall from Sam, alone in the dark and without the comforting hum of his brother snoring in the next bed over. He agreed to turn to Castiel for help in order not to lose Sam. But all roads still apparently lead to Rome no matter how much Dean tries to steer them back on course.

When he attempts alternative avenues to investigate what Sam and Castiel do together, Castiel says opaque things like, "I am trying to alleviate the corruption in your brother's soul, as per your request," and then stares in guileless impassivity when Dean doesn't find statements like that useful.

Sam gives better insights, though not by much. "No, it's going good," he tells Dean over pizza one night, just over two weeks in. "I mean, great, actually. I think we're making real progress." But the pointless embargo against Dean joining them for a session remains.

"Dude," Dean eventually snaps, "what the hell's your problem? I just want to know what you guys do in there all day."

"You don't believe in any of this stuff anyway," Sam retorts, the defensive tone catching Dean off guard. "So what does it matter? I've told you a thousand times. Cas and I are trying to find a way to cure me. That's it. So just—back off already. You've been driving me insane."

Dean's eyebrows jump at the nickname. " _Cas_? Did he, like, propose? Is he getting you a pretty, sparkly diamond ring? Got to make sure Sammy gets only the best."

Sam slams his laptop closed and gathers the cords and his headphones from the kitchen table. As he passes, he sneers, "You know what, sometimes you can be incredibly disrespectful," leaving Dean standing there uncertain what crawled up Sam's butt. Being called a dick is one thing; being called disrespectful—that’s harsh. 

 

* * *

 

So Sam and Castiel are, like, friends now or something. Which is fine. In fact, it would be just peachy fucking keen. If only Castiel weren't some kind of lying, jerkwad fraud.

Everyone has some kind of skeletons hiding in their closet. Dean just needs to find where Castiel buried all the bodies. Then Sam will understand Dean has the right to join their appointments or when they sit around Sam's laptop watching snooze-fest nature documentaries. In the middle of the night when Sam is asleep, Dean snakes the laptop and starts in on his own research.

Before they came here, Sam pulled the house records. A James Novak bought this house five years ago, in an estate sale that closed quickly and below market value, with a down payment paid upfront in cash. Presuming this Novak guy and Castiel are one and the same—like hell Castiel is a real name—Dean starts to look into Novak prior to five years ago.

After a few nights of fruitless internet searches for "james novak illinois", "j novak faith healing", and "james novak + castiel" _,_ Dean stumbles upon a cached article from an old church newsletter. The headline reads:  SECOND SET OF CHARGES DISMISSED FOR LOCAL PARISHIONER, UNFIT TO STAND TRIAL. A black and white mug shot-style photo sits embedded next to the article. From the screen, the unmistakable too-wide, blank eyes of one James Novak, aka Castiel the Faith Healer, stare back at Dean. The newsletter dates from nine years ago. While Castiel doesn't look appreciatively younger in the photo, his hair is shorter, buzzed into military severity. His face shape is different too, cheeks bloated and puffy, with swollen crescents beneath his eyes. He looks barely cognizant that his photo was being taken at the time. The tattoos that currently collar his neck are missing.  

The article doesn't provide many details. The writer dedicates the majority of the word count to condescending reminders that _Jimmy_ will continue to be in their prayers and the plights that can befall those who turn away from God. Reading between the lines, Dean gleans that Castiel resided at the time in intensive care at a psych ward, and that the assault charges brought against him by members of the hospital staff were not his first brushes with the law.

Criminal and school records are public, and once he finds the right precinct in Pontiac, Illinois, the sordid details of Castiel's life practically fall into Dean's lap. Born in 1974, nothing of interest shows on Jimmy Novak's public records until eleven years ago when he crashed his car head-on into a tree.  After that, Jimmy dropped out of his two-year Bible-based college, and within six months began a pattern of being placed on court-order holds in the psychiatric unit of the local hospital. The holds started at a customary 72 hours, but soon grew into fourteen days, thirty days, and—a year out from the accident—a mandatory six months, with the option for the court to extend the term as needed.

References to at least six different charges for assault or property damage litter the reports over the next two years. A stay was placed on four of the charges, no conviction ever decreed on the grounds that Jimmy—Castiel—was unable to stand trial in his current condition. The remaining two charges are felony assault charges that were eventually downgraded to grand misdemeanors. One of the police reports still has pictures attached, photos of a hospital crime scene featuring the bruised and bloody face of a male nurse, and x-rays showing multiple skull and rib fractures. The public defender assigned to the case successfully worked a plea deal around an insanity defense. Jimmy was relocated to a locked ward and placed for eighteen months in what both the in-take papers and police report only refer to as "intensive rehabilitation".

After that, the paper trail dries up. At some point, the hospital must have released Jimmy. Within three years, he somehow found the funds to purchase this house, adopted the name Castiel, and relocated here from Pontiac. No mention is made of any family.

So not only is Castiel a liar and fraud, but a dangerous one at that.

Dean holds off on showing the findings to Sam immediately. He wants his case to be iron-clad, everything cited and supported, before he tries to convince Sam that his new-found pal has a dark side. He prints out the bulk of his research at the library one afternoon, creating a dossier with a cheap notebook and a gluestick that outlines Castiel's psychotic and criminal behavior. A vengeful compulsion overtakes him at the last moment, and he mocks up a draft for a flyer to hang around the town square. It shows the mug shot from the church newsletter blown up to fit the page, and details below in bullet points the worst of Castiel's crimes. Other people should know Castiel's potential for destruction. Dean's seen people bring their kids in, the vulnerable elderly, trusting Castiel to do help instead of harm. Now Dean has proof of his real character. 

 

* * *

 

Distracted by marking up the flyer draft at the table, late in the middle of the night, Dean doesn't hear the silent figure pad into the kitchen until three fingers suddenly steeple against the face in the photo. When Dean jerks his head up, the same face is staring down at the flyer. He watches Castiel's Adam's apple bob.

"You found adequate reading material at the library, I see."

Dean leans back in his chair, crossing his arms over his chest, vindicated and smug over the evidence of his hard work. "You could say that."

Castiel nods, not looking up, and swallows again. He taps the flyer neutrally. "How many copies of this exist?"

"Just the one, right now." Dean sees no point in being dishonest. A threat is a threat is a threat. "But I can easily make more. I was thinking how nice the town would look with these babies plastered over every public building and park. Your days are numbered here. _Jimmy_."

A muscle in Castiel's cheek jumps. "Do not call me that," he rasps. "That's not my name."

"No?" Dean jerks the notebook forward and flips to the page where he pasted a photocopy of Castiel's old driver's license. "'Cause it sure seems to be. Unless, of course, there's another James Novak that looks just likes you and lives in this house." Tipping the chair back, he plasters on a broad grin when Castiel's eyes flick to him. "Kind of a far-fetched coincidence, though, don't you think?"

Castiel stands frozen in the spot, silent. His fingertips stay poised on the picture of his puffy, dazed face. It takes a long time, but Dean waits him out and eventually gets rewarded with a reply. "You don’t know what you’re doing here, Dean."

"Try me."

"My name's not Jimmy Novak," Castiel begins, stiff and quiet, like Dean doesn't have reams of paper that prove the contrary. "Jimmy was—Jimmy was just a man. A good man. Eleven years ago, something happened."

"The car crash," Dean interprets, and Castiel reluctantly inclines his head.

"The car crash. A—change took place then. Jimmy was no more. I was . . . This _body_ ," he emphasizes, tugging on the lapels of his robe, "became Castiel. But I was naive. I thought . . . I thought people would accept the change in, in identity. I thought they would prefer to know. That Jimmy was gone. That I was Castiel now. I openly divulged my abilities. My powers. To Jimmy's classmates, to his colleagues. To the doctors when they brought me to them. I thought—if I _showed them_ ," Castiel says, as pained agitation twists mouth, "that inarguable proof would be my salvation. But instead I set in motion my own destruction."

Something about that makes Dean's skin prickle in self-consciousness. The urge to be proven right is a familiar one. He tucks his cheek against his shoulder, looking away. "So you didn't have your powers before the car accident?" Castiel had said something about that when they first met with him, how trauma can cause supernatural abilities to manifest.

"I was . . . not in a position to heal people before then, no," Castiel replies, choosing his words carefully. "I thought the ability to do so would endear me to people. But I miscalculated how deep human fear of the other runs. They locked me up. They injected chemicals. They made me see things, hear things, that I knew . . . _couldn't_ be real. But that I was still helpless to disbelieve. When I broke through the restraints, they constructed stronger ones. Gave me more drugs. I was left alone and naked in a—this White Room for . . . I don’t know. For months.” Castiel ducks his head away. “I suppose they thought I would hurt myself. Or hurt others."

Despite himself, the newly-formed lump in Dean's throat aches in sympathy. That wasn't suppose to be the point of this. He grits his teeth. "You _did_ hurt people."

Castiel nods and admits softly, "I did. I did, yes.  By accident. I thought they were—" He breaks off with an irritated grunt and a shake of his head. "It doesn't matter. I was hallucinating things. I thought they were going to hurt me. I acted out in self-defense."

Dean huffs, and the sound finally gets Castiel to look at him, a shadow of his usual irked glare. "Yeah, that's some self-defense. You cracked some guy's skull. _Multiple times_."

"I was _afraid_ ," he growls, stabbing his old picture for emphasis. "I was not in my right mind. It was an accident, Dean. Every time. Eventually I learned to ignore what the drugs inflicted on my senses. I began simply to trust in the idea that I was . . . Alone. Well and truly. It made me seem calmer, I suppose, at least from the outside. They tapered off the drugs. Once the hallucinations stopped, it was easier. I pretended to be normal. I stopped insisting I had powers. I took up some of Jimmy's old hobbies. Bible study. Walks in the garden. Until eventually I won my freedom."

Dean tries to picture that and can't. He's heard similar stories before, mostly in movies, about strong anti-psychotics, the kind that make people worse instead of better. Even though Castiel says he found solace after accepting he was alone, it doesn't look like that. The quiet, depressed slump of his shoulders tells a different story. Dean bites his lip, uncertain. "So then what happened?"

Castiel shrugs. "So then I . . . I had nowhere to return to. None of Jimmy's past acquaintances wanted anything to do with me. I began to practice faith healing as a way to support myself. Going into town was still a nightmare. I was unwelcome in most establishments. Distrusted. Repulsive. Feared. One misstep could send me back to the White Room. So I—eventually I left. I bought this house. I began anew." He tilts his head towards Dean, finding his eyes. "Whatever you think of me, Dean, my only wish is to live here in peace. I know you can choose to spread the information you've learned about me. I know I can't stop you. But I ask that—I _hope_ that—you will not. I don't wish anyone any harm. I just want to be left alone."

Hollywood keeps trying to remake the old horror movies from the 1920s. Dean's seen the posters for the newest version of Phantom of the Opera, but he has no desire to see it. The one with Lon Chaney will always be the best. He can't help remembering the scene at the end, with the towns people with their torches hunting down the monster, and the final scene on the bridge when they kill him. The end always struck Dean as heartbreaking, not triumphant. The way the Phantom cowered from the mob, his damaged face on display, alone and hated despite the fact that his only crime was wanting to live and love like everyone else.  

Castiel's grim expression reminds him of that now. He looks down at the flyer, at the glazed look in that Castiel's eyes. It must have been taken during his time in the White Room, face swollen from drugs. Abandoned. Dean knows his limits. Clearing his throat, he nods. "Yeah. Yeah, sure. Don't worry about it." The flyer crumples up in his fist.  

Castiel closes his eyes with relief. "Thank you, Dean. I was hoping I would still have the chance to try to help your brother. I admit, I've come to appreciate the time I've spent with him."

Right. Because Sam and Castiel are each other's new best friends. And Dean is still left out in the cold. 


	3. Chapter 3

Things balance into a bizarre status quo after that. Sam and Castiel continue to disappear into the third bedroom, and Dean continues to hate it. But he dumps the dossier without showing it to anyone and clears the browser history, just in case Sam starts to suspect Dean looks up more things than porn on his computer. He tries to ignore Castiel as much as he can, going for neutral coexistence rather than die-hard dislike. Focusing on the time he gets to spend with Sam turns out to be a better use of his energy. Now that Dean's paying attention, Sam seems happier than he has in months, if not years. Once he notices that fact, it becomes a lot harder to resent Castiel for providing it.

Apart from his clients who come between noon and eight pm on business days, Castiel receives no other visitors. With two exceptions. The first exception comes every other Sunday, usually in the afternoon, but sometimes not until evening. Her high pony tail and preference for yoga pants with lettering across the ass make her seem like a college kid, but the crinkles around her mouth and the heaviness in her face reveal her to be closer to mid-forties. The few times Dean grabs the door before Castiel, catching a glimpse of her 1998 Dodge Caravan idling behind the Impala, she always talks to him about her kids' soccer practice or the best places to find coupons online, before handing over a backpack loaded with a shrink-wrapped brick of marijuana. Sometimes there's other things in there as well, pills hidden in Altoids tins that Dean can hear rattling around at the bottom. Castiel will interfere then, trading this week's backpack with the one from last week, stuffed, Dean is sure, with wads and wads of cash.

"Thank you, Lacey," Castiel rasps, and Lacey the drug dealer beams at him before she leaves.

"Oh! Hey! Come see the homecoming game at the high school this weekend. Jenna just made freshman cheerleading squad."

"I will consider it," Castiel promises. "Pass on my compliments to your daughter." Dean never sees him leave the house, but Lacey returns the next scheduled Sunday, every time, just as bouncy and perky as ever.

The second exception is really two people. Every Monday and Thursday evening, a person shows up at the door. Sometimes it's a man; sometimes it's a woman. They both dress nice, the man preferring a more casual look while the woman dresses classier, with black heels that click across the hardwood. Nothing about them should suggest anything strange about their visit. They might as well be friends coming over. Except Dean doesn't buy that Castiel has friends, not after learning about his past. The dude seems to find social interaction taxing at best, personally offensive at worst. Sam keeps trying to get Castiel to join them for pizza or a movie on the small black and white television they dug out from the back of a closet their first week here. The reception isn't great, but it picks up the basic channels, and there's usually something dumb and entertaining to devour. Castiel stares blankly at them every time, like sitting around talking and watching TV is an affront to his basic sensibilities.   

It's the guy tonight when Castiel opens the door. The smell of cologne hits Dean all the way in the kitchen. He watches Castiel make a brisk, military about-face for the stairs after a brusque, "Come in." The guy follows, their footsteps echoing towards the stairs that lead to the attic.

Dean waggles his eyebrows at Sam across the table. "Wanna bet $500 a night? Maybe it's five if it's business as usual, and six if he lets Castiel top."

Sam almost chokes around a slice of pepper from his spaghetti. "What?"

Tucking his hands behind his head, Dean leans back in his chair in smug satisfaction. "Aw, come on, Sammy," he teases. "You don't know a hooker when you see one?"

"That's not—" Sam's eyes dart between the front door and the stairs where Castiel and his night-time friend exited. A blush starts to creep up his cheeks. "What, really? You think—"  

Dean rolls his eyes. "Please. Who’s going to hit that for free? It'd be less prickly to have sex with a porcupine."

"You shouldn't say stuff like that," Sam mumbles, picking at his pasta and looking uncomfortable. "I know you don't like him but trust me, Cas is one of the good guys."

"Don't tell me you're switch hitting for the pink team now, Sammy."

Sam glares at him. "No. I'm just saying." His shoulders hunch up in defensive position, expression unhappy. "He's not that bad. And so what if he hires hookers? I mean." Sam looks up at him, trapping him with a bald look. "You've done it."

To wriggle out of that conversational corner would mean Dean has to admit that a strip club is as far as his experience with paying for titillation goes. He's been to a brothel twice, once for a case and once as a curious nineteen year old. At the time he bragged about it to Sam, but he left out the part where beer was the ballsiest thing he dared to order off the menu. It's hard to drum up the enthusiasm to want to buy what those girls are selling when you've been in their place. And that fact is a secret he plans to take to his grave. Sam doesn't know about the boys home for stealing food and Sam doesn't need to know about the truck stops and alleyways when Dean tried to put food on the table with cold, hard cash.

He looks down, shame prickling the back of his neck, and then raps his knuckles against the table. "Yeah. Well. I'm going out." The chair squeals across the floor as he shoves it back. "Some things you don't need to hear in life, and Castiel spending quality time with his butt-buddy is one of them."

 

* * *

 

He tries to go out as often as possible. Staying in one place is rubbing raw on his nerves, leaving him edgy and restless. The bars in town don't have much going for them, but they're better than nothing. Johnnie's is the seedier of the two, with a smattering of pool tables and dart boards arranged under dim, low-hanging lights. Dean's been able to earn some supplementary cash that way over the last few weeks. Except too many drunken wins and the regular clientele has started to suspect something. The thing about staying in one place for a prolonged period of time is that people begin to know you. Credit fraud and hustling keeps them solvent only so long as they keep moving from place to place. Once people recognize you as a name or a face, they start to wonder things like why the credit card says Edward Rifkin or how many pool balls you can really sink while supposedly fall-down drunk.

So the bars are out. What they need, Dean decides, is a good, old-fashion hunt. He drops in on Sam's room late Wednesday morning, before Sam can head off on his daily run, a thing that apparently happens now. Knocking on the doorjamb, Dean leans his shoulder into the frame before Sam can acknowledge him. "Hey. Caught something in the newspaper earlier. Couple strange sightings at an old movie theater over in Des Moines. Patrons saying the eyes in the paintings on the walls seem to follow them."

Slipping his heel into a running shoe, Sam pauses to laugh. He has on a pair of those terrible thermal tights under his shorts to fight the early autumn chill. "What, you want to go on a ghost hunt all of a sudden?"

"Yeah, why not?" He shimmies his shoulders to drum up excitement. "Little salt and burn action. Could be something up our alley."

Sam smiles, but then shakes his head. "Dean, I can't. Cas and I meet every day, and Des Moines is like, what? Five hours away? I can't just take off and ditch Cas."

"Please," Dean snorts, choosing to focus on the real matter at hand while ignoring the reminder of Sam's nickname for Castiel. "I can do that drive in three and a half hours, tops."

Sam rolls his eyes, like Dean is purposefully being funny. "Okay. Stating it more clearly: I'm not going to flake on Cas. He's really helping me. I think we're making real progress.”

That phrase has becomes Sam's mantra whenever the subject of Castiel comes up. He's _helping_. They're _making progress_. But it's progress Dean has no part in. He scuffs his boot against the hardwood. "Right, right. You two have your super secret girls club thing happening. No boys allowed. It's the Sam and Castiel Hour."

"Dean." Sam's voice sounds kind of weird, meaning Dean has to suddenly look anywhere but Sam. "Are you . . . are you jealous?" Sam asks, and that is just so wrong and so off-base that Dean accidentally chokes for a second on his own spit.

"What? No! No." He gives Sam his best _what-come-on_ face. "What I am is going stir-crazy here just sitting around all day. And I think a little bit of paranoia isn't out of place. Okay? Come on. Castiel . . . that guy's a freak, Sammy. He's freaking weird."

"A lot of people would say I'm a freak, Dean," Sam rationalizes, which is just not fair. "The way we grew up, we're not exactly poster kids for normalcy."

"No, you're . . ." Dean doesn't know what Sam is now with his powers, other than wrong about this. Neither of them are anything like Castiel. "That's different."

"Sam." The voice comes out of nowhere behind Dean, making him twitch and stumble, and then collide into the door. Castiel stands just outside in the hallway, expression harmlessly neutral. "Hello to you as well, Dean. Sam, I would like to engage our appointment now, if you're free."

Okay, so Dean tries to be on decent terms with Castiel, if just for Sam's sake. But that shit's sometimes a lot harder than it seems. Especially when Castiel decides to pop up whenever he damn well pleases. "Does he look free? We're talking here. Come back later."

Castiel's eyes narrow stubbornly. "You hired me to see your brother daily to help him in whatever ways I can. I have clients starting at four for the rest of the day. For us to meet today, it needs to be now."

"Yeah, well, you could wait for ten freaking minutes," Dean insists, ignoring Sam's tortured sighs from the bed.  "Jesus, you're like some kind of creepy paparazzi stalker, appearing whenever someone even mentions your name."

That seems to speak to something in Castiel. Dean watches as his head tilts in consideration, wondering if Castiel will finally realize Dean also needs some alone time with his brother. But then Castiel steps closer into Dean's space and recites, "I'm your biggest fan. I'll follow you until you love me," while staring deeply into Dean's eyes.  

Dean's heart launches into the back of his throat at the same time as his knees go weak. "What the hell?" comes out in a strangled plea.

Castiel tilts his head the other way. "Paparazzi," he says at first, like an answer. But then continues in the same monotone, "Baby, there's no other superstar. You'll know that I'll be your papa-paparazzi," pausing at odd points between words to create a rhythm. "Promise I'll be kind. But I won't stop until that boy is mine." He glances towards Sam at the last, and Dean lets out a gargled sound. "Baby, you'll be famous. Follow you until you love me. Papa-paparazzi."

Sam's raucous guffaws rupture the air like machine-gun fire. Dean feels his face flame hot, angry and disturbed, and—and—. Just _what the hell?_ Castiel gets this surprised, satisfied look hidden in the corners of his eyes and mouth, and Dean narrows his eyes. He knows revenge when he sees it.

Mission apparently accomplished, Castiel spins on his heels to disappear down the hallway. His parting words trail behind him. "I will see you shortly, Sam."

Dean's heart won't drop to his chest where it belongs. He turns to see Sam pulling on a hoodie over his basketball shorts. "No, seriously," he wheezes, fighting to sound irritated and not—not— _whatever_. "Seriously. What the hell is wrong with him?"

Sam shakes his head in empty commiseration, face still split around a grin. Instead of explaining or defending Castiel's weird—threats? flirtation?—he claps Dean on the shoulder as he exits the room, suggesting, "Maybe Cas just likes listening to the radio."

Dean elects to go on the hunt alone. Getting away from the house for a few days—away from _Castiel_ —should give him room to get his head back in the game. The hunt lets him stretch his legs, but that's all it accomplishes. The old movie theater turns out to be just that, an old movie theater, no matter how many EMF readings Dean takes. He stays on through the weekend to catch the Sunday matinee of _Butch Cassidy and the Sundance Kid_ , glorifying in Paul Newman's baby blues. But when he tries to pull cash off the credit card to load up on popcorn and candy, the ATM beeps at him and displays an error message.

It does it again at the gas station next to theater when he goes to fuel up the Impala. The error message might mean the card is overdrawn or it might mean fraud detection. Either way, it leaves the card defunct and Dean with a quarter tank to get him back to Illinois. Living at Castiel's, with few chances to bring money in, the only direction money's been going is out. Castiel's fees aren't terrible, and what he asks per week in rent and utilities is actually cheaper than living out of motels. But after a month, their financial resources now appear to be tapped.

"Shit," Dean swears, and goes up to the counter to ask where the nearest pawn shop is.

He manages to pawn one of the Berettas and gets just over 400 dollars for it. That price is two hundred too low for that gun, but he's in a bind and it's better than needing to sell his 911. Four hundred bucks will get him back to the house and cover the groceries for the next couple weeks. It won't make a dent in the money Castiel expects to receive every Monday morning, prompt at nine.

Not paying is not an option. Castiel does decent business. He also doesn't hedge around the fact that he expects fair compensation for his abilities. Castiel doesn't seem to care if people pay up front or pay when they leave, as long as they pay. Dean still remembers the Friday he came home early from the bar to catch Castiel pushing a guy up the wall by the grip under the guy's jaw alone. A cane and prosthetic leg both lay on the floor just inside the door.

"You owe me money," Castiel had growled. "I gave you that leg, and I will take it away."

"You're a freak," the guy coughed, clawing at Castiel's fingers without success. After a second Castiel dropped the man as dead weight to the ground and the guy had started to panic and moan. Where a leg once dangled beneath his knee, now the guy's left pant leg did nothing but crumple into empty fabric as he clutched at it, limbless once again.

"That may be true," Castiel said, his whole demeanor cold and distant, shuttered off as he watched the man shudder on the floor. "But I told you the rules before we started. Now get out of my house. Business hours end at 8. Hello, Dean." He had to brush past Dean to head up the stairs and then disappeared into the attic for the night.

Whatever Castiel swears that his past problems with violence were accidents, his house contains enough clues to suggest Castiel is familiar with hunting, if maybe not a hunter himself. Hunters aren't pacifists by nature. And ain't no one keeps a knife collection like that for decorative purposes alone. So maybe Castiel isn't some kind of sadist or psycho killer. That doesn't mean he can't or won't use force when necessary.

Dean doesn't want that kind of necessity directed at him. However he needs to get the money to keep paying Castiel, he'll just have to do it. All he needs is a plan.

 

* * *

He wakes up early on Tuesday, hoping to get down to the kitchen before anyone else and bribe Castiel into a generous mood with some coffee and breakfast. At first Castiel used to react like coffee was some kind of foreign and complicated poison Dean was suggesting to him, instead of liquid caffeine mixed with fat and sugar. He probably still considers Starbucks to be the root of all evil. The guy's offended aversion to all substances not containing either alcohol or THC makes Dean's diet look like it was handed down on high from the FDA. But over the course of the month they've been here, he's seen Castiel begin to try sips and bites of things, as long as Sam's the one offering. Some of them even manage to escape the holy wrath of hell descending over Castiel's face and Castiel spitting and bitching into the sink.

Coffee is one of those few, precious exemptions, along with bacon—which Dean approves of, even if he can't quite believe someone reaching their thirties without ever having tried bacon before—and funnily enough, homemade chocolate chip cookies. Dean got the craving to try his hand at baking them the other week, perks of having both a full kitchen and spare time at his disposal for once. Castiel slunk into the kitchen as the cookies were rising in the oven to inquire about the smell, and then returned later between clients, looking shifty and irritable, and loitered around making strange, overly-personal observations that Dean couldn't decide how to respond to until he realized that was Castiel's version of small talk.

Before Castiel came into the kitchen, Dean had twelve cookies resting on a plate on the kitchen table. After Castiel left, there were seven. Dean knows if he turned out the pockets of Castiel's bathrobe, he'd find the crumbs.

They're out of chocolate chips so after taking stock of the pantry, Dean decides to hope that sugar cookies will be an acceptable substitute. He throws on a pot of coffee for himself while he prepares the dough and preheats the oven. While he's waiting for the dough to chill, he catches the sound of feet on the stairway and the muffled tone of voices saying goodbye. Tiptoeing towards the hall, Dean lets the wall block most of him from sight and hangs his head out the kitchen doorway.  

Castiel is standing with his guest in the front room, reconfirming plans for Thursday night. The guy looks freshly showered, but satisfied, and pecks a quick kiss to Castiel's cheek before he leaves. Once the door closes Castiel rubs at the affected patch of skin like a petulant three-year old, looking perplexed and uncertain, and Dean barely manages to repress his laugh into a quiet snort. Castiel stills mid-turn at the subtle sound. His head jerks up and then in the direction of the kitchen, eyes locking on Dean.  

"What," Castiel defends, trying for intimidating, but the surprise goodbye kiss seems to have thrown him off his game. If it were anyone else, Dean would call that expression a pout. He grins widely and lifts his coffee cup up in salute.

"Morning, sunshine. Nice gams."

Pre-coital Castiel and post-coital Castiel don't differ much in the looks department. His hair stills curls over the tips of his ears, uncombed and sticking up in tufts over the crown of his head. The omnipresent blue bathrobe cinches around his narrow waist, revealing the flat plane of Castiel's chest and making Dean wonder if Castiel even owns a shirt. T-shirts must be like food, phone calls, and social skills—anathema to Castiel's very being. The sweatpants are missing this morning as well, revealing the lean muscle of Castiel's calves and the thin bones of his feet.

Castiel looks down at himself and then back up at Dean with an air of the truly tragic and oblivious. "Do you find my legs to be offensive?" He flicks two fingers towards Dean's feet and head, signifying his outfit. "You seem to like to be covered from ankle to wrist, as was common in Victorian times. Do you believe society should reinstate those practices?"

The annoying thing is Dean can never tell if Castiel is fucking with him or asking a sincere question. He even does that stupid little head tilt thing to top it off. Dean scowls. "What? No. It's—never mind." Getting into a debate over who has the worse fashion sense isn't part of the plan. He steps back into the kitchen and jerks his thumb over his shoulder at the coffee pot. "There's fresh coffee. If you want some. And I got some cookie dough in the fridge to bake in a sec."

He turns around to put together a cup of coffee for Castiel, mixing it with the right amounts of milk and sugar, and then almost spills it when he turns back to find Castiel having crept up silently behind him in the intermit. "Whoa! Hey there, buddy." Dean nearly bites his tongue trying not to snap something insulting about sneaking up on people. Dude would be amazing stalking deer in the woods; maybe he should give Bobby Castiel's number. He hands Castiel the mug, watching as he puts his nose near the liquid, then takes a trial sip.

From Sam, coffee is golden. From Dean, you never know, could still be poison. Even though Dean knows he makes way, way better coffee. "Good, right?"

Castiel doesn't respond more than a twitchy nod, but to Dean's eminent satisfaction, he does take a second, longer drink. This is better than the time Sam's school took a field trip to a petting zoo and Dean convinced a baby goat to eat out of his hand instead of chewing up and then puking on Dean's shirt. Maybe Dean is smiling and staring a little too much from a little too close because eventually Castiel's forehead creases. "Yes?"

Right, okay. Don't look nervous. He jams his hands in his pockets for a casual cool. "So, hey, look. I wanted to ask you something."

Castiel just stares at him, because Castiel thinks copious amounts of staring is a necessary and vital part of every conversation.  

This is harder than he thought it would be. Castiel's level gaze has a way of making everything go knotted up and hot inside of him, like he could strip Dean down to nothing but bone and embarrassing teenage stories with his eyes alone.

"Okay, so. You want to be paid for helping Sam, and you want our share of the rent and utilities and stuff, and I get that and I'm on board with that." Castiel's expression doesn't change. A brick wall would be more responsive. Dean grits his teeth and forces out the rest. "It's just that I'm kind of having a cash flow problem right now."

That gets a response. Castiel's expression darkens. "You cannot pay?"

Images of Castiel pinning him to the wall fill Dean's head, making his heart beat double-time and the back of his neck burn. "No. No. I'm going to pay. I was just wondering if you'd be interested in, like, a barter system instead of cash. Just for the next couple weeks. Just until I can figure something else out." He gives Castiel one of his most winning smiles, going for charming and sincere.

He's not totally sure that Castiel buys it. It's got to take years of study in obscure Tibetan monasteries or something to be able to look that detached all the time. Castiel's face is like a no man's land for expressions. Emotions are probably shot on sight before they even leave the trenches.

"So." Dean rocks back on his heels. "What do you think?"

"Barter has been out of practice in general society since the invention of a regulated monetary system nearly a thousand years ago," Castiel answers.

Right. Great. What else do you do with that but laugh? "Okay. Thanks for the history lesson."

Castiel tilts his head again, his eyes squinted in speculation. For once it doesn't seem like it's intended to be threatening but rather Castiel giving the suggestion its full due consideration. "What do you propose to barter?"

Bingo.

"Okay, well, here's what I was thinking," Dean says. "I don't know if you've noticed but your house is in pretty rough shape. The yard and stuff, and the porch. Let's not even talk about the paint job. That's probably not great for business, right? People don't want to go into a house that looks like an ax murderer lives there."

A confused line appears between Castiel's brows. "I am not an ax murderer, Dean," Castiel says, and then adds after a beat, "I don't own an ax."

Dean narrows his eyes at him. "You _are_ fucking with me."

The soft, smug curl at the corner of Castiel's mouth is all the answer Dean needs.

"Bitch," he laughs, surprised and relieved both by the fact Castiel admitted it and by the fact that Castiel has a sense of humor buried somewhere beneath that slouchy, misanthropic hermit shtick.

Castiel gives a jerky, unapologetic shrug. "You make it easy. Sometimes that's hard to resist."

Dean rolls his eyes. From now on he's going to work at making it less easy. Get a little of his own back. "So do we got a deal? Fix up the outside, clean up the inside. Maybe get some lamps or something so your customers aren't running into shit anymore. That's got to be worth its weight in gold right there. Good for a few weeks worth of rent and payment?"

Castiel deliberates the offer, but not for as long as Dean first thought he'd need. "All right," he says, but then adds to Dean's disbelieving horror, "But, Dean, don't change the paint colors. They were one of the reasons I originally bought the house."

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> So though technically Lady Gaga didn't drop her album until 2008, we like to pretend in this universe it came out by 2006. As Jensen says is the motto of the show: Ain't no joke too cheap.


	4. Chapter 4

Dean works through November into December, racing against the thick grey clouds gathering in the north that threaten a white Christmas. Digging out from the garage what rusted tools the previous owners left behind, and borrowing from neighbors or renting from the hardware store in town whatever else he needs, he sets to work turning Castiel's house from an architectural corpse into a place that looks like someone actually lives there. He mows the tangled prairie grass down to brown stubs in both the front and back yards, and culls the overgrown rose bushes to within an inch of their life. The remaining roots and the few scraggly branches he hopes will bloom again next spring. The fence gets a new coat of paint, teal to match the trim at Castiel's insistence and because Dean will need it for the porch later, despite his objections that white is classic.

"The phrase is white picket fence, not green picket fence," he protests when Castiel blows past all the neutrals on the Sherwin Williams fan deck to land in the greens and blues.

"It should coordinate with the house," Castiel—Dean's going to call it out— _whines_ , deliberating between Turquish and Blue Peacock with a severity that suggests choosing paint colors is right up there with brain surgery.  

"Your house is purple, dude." Then he points to the back of a sample strip. "Oh, hey, Poseidon comes with RainGuard. That'd be good for winter."

"I like purple," Castiel argues, sliding Poseidon out of the deck for Dean to jot down the order number, and Dean raises dark eyes to the heavens for strength.

"You would."

The porch turns into a complete rebuild. At first Dean tries to save time and costs by just replacing the worst of the worn-out boards. But by the second time his boot punches through a part of the deck he already deemed salvageable, he decides to rip the whole thing down and just start over.

"How will my customers get in and out of the house?" Castiel asks while Dean rinses his sock free of blood and splinters at the sink in the kitchen.

"They can use the side door. You know, the one you can now tell you have, thanks to me."

"But the sign is on the front door," Castiel frets, ever in fear of the poor slob who might dare disturb the phone from its eternal rest. Dean has to glare him into submission while hobbling on one leg and clutching his bloody sock. At least Castiel offers to heal his twisted ankle without Dean needing to do much more than limp and look pathetic when he tries to slide his boot back on.

Without needing to worry about pesky, regular people things like broken bones or torn muscles, Dean attacks the porch with gusto, discovering a sledge hammer deep in the trunk of the Impala and bulldozing through everything but the foundation posts in less than two days. Reconstruction takes longer than demolition and he spends long, sweaty hours in the front yard stripped down to flannel and a thermal undershirt, blasting AC/DC from a boom box, while he saws, sands, and secures the new porch in place.

Soon all that's left to do for the porch is prime and paint. Dean tackles the job the morning after they get their first real snowfall of the season. A thin layer of dense powder covers the ground when he wakes up, squeaking beneath his boots as he carries paint and a ladder from the garage to the front of the house. After spending the morning sequestered in the third bedroom with Sam working for a cure, Castiel makes the rare escape outdoors around lunchtime, curious to inspect the transformation nature has provided to his yard and Dean is providing to his house. Consequential to being a cave-dwelling recluse who shuns fresh air, Castiel hasn't yet seen in person any of the improvements Dean's made.   

"Sam and I could use more space," Castiel says, squinting up at Dean from the bottom of the ladder. "We've been feeling the mental effects of confinement. Sam calls it cabin fever. Will it disturb you if we join you out here?"

"Uh."

Dean could work up a better response if not for the utter weirdness of seeing Castiel outside of the house as well as out of his usual robe. His shirt has a freaking picture of a Buddha on it. The soft-looking long grey sleeves hug the lines of Castiel's forearms and bicep muscles. A black beanie hides the tips of his ears, protecting them from the damp chill. Somehow it makes his eyes seem bluer.   

"Dean?" Castiel prompts, his mouth forming a little moue of impatience. "Sam said to tell you we would like to stretch our legs in the yard. But if we'll distract you from your work, I'm sure Sam knows an exercise regiment that will work in the confines of the sitting room. I doubt I'll have many visitors today due to the adverse road conditions."

"No. I mean, sure, yeah." He shakes his head to dispel the strange sense of unbalance. Castiel is wearing _jeans_ , for Christ sake, the faded black material stuffed into a pair of combat boots and stretching across Castiel's ass. He didn't know Castiel even knew what jeans were. "I've been needing a break, so have it. Mi casa es su casa and all that." He grins a cheeky grin at the irony.

Castiel narrows his eyes back at him in irritation. "Your benevolence is mighty and all-encompassing."

"Right back at you, babe." Dean winks and clicks his tongue, and doesn't care if the faint flush highlighting Castiel's cheeks is really from the cold. He'll count it as a win.

 

* * *

Of course it's a set up.

Sam comes out bundled in a coat and gloves when Castiel gives the go-ahead, a thick, striped scarf coiled around his neck. Dean ignores the two of them for the first twenty minutes, which proves to be his undoing. By the time the first snowball smashes apart against Dean's back, Sam has rolled enough snow together to form a make-shift bomb shelter. A second snowball targets the collar of his jacket, seeping cold snow down the back of his neck, while Sam dives behind his protective wall, sniggering.

"Cabin fever, my ass!" Dean swears, and jumps the last three rungs of the ladder to exact his revenge.

At first Castiel only watches as they chuck handfuls of snow back and forth, eyebrows crumpled together in mystification. He looks strange out here in daylight, surrounded by the open space of the yard and the height of the neighboring houses and trees. Smaller somehow, more contained. Standing alone on the sidelines like fun is a thing that belongs to other people. For a brief, bizarre second, Dean remembers what Castiel said about his realization in the White Room and wishes he knew a way to crack Castiel out of his shell.

Sam does it for him. "Hey, Cas! Catch!" Sam yells, and lobs a giant ball of snow in Castiel's direction. It smacks Castiel square in the chest, disintegrating on contact into a cloud of brilliant sunlit crystals. Castiel looks down at the wet patch spreading across his shirt. He didn't even flinch an arm to defend himself.

"What is the purpose of this game again?" Castiel asks. "You failed to explain earlier." And ha, yeah, Dean knew it. It was a set up.

"I don't know!" Sam shouts back, red-cheeked and laughing as he runs the length of the fence back to his hideaway. Dean keeps pelting him in the head with loose chunks of snow, coating Sam's hair and the shoulders of his coat with a wet sheen. "Defeat Dean!"

"Oh," says Castiel astutely. "All right."

"Oh yeah," Dean ridicules. "Like you've ever beaten me in a snowball fight. I'm reigning champ, Sammy." What he doesn't hear is Castiel using his silent powers for evil to sneak up behind him. A wash of snow and cold dumps over his head. "What the—!" Dean yelps, turning to connect for a second with the wide, surprised blue of Castiel's eyes, and then Sam is bellowing out a call-to-arms of, "Get him!", and Dean gets clobbered from all sides.

As Christmas season warms up and the weather cools down, fewer people come by the house to ask for Castiel's help. Only those serious cases from out of town trek in at regular intervals, as well as Castiel's weekly sex buddies, while the locals put off fixing their hangnails until after the holiday rush. "It always slows down this time of year," Castiel says, with a frown that suggests that the reasons behind activities like shopping or spending time with loved ones instead of visiting the resident drug-addict-cum-miracle-worker escape him.

For a while, Dean thought Castiel might close up shop for the holidays and take a few days to go see his own relatives. But he doesn't. Celebrating holidays has never been a thing in the Winchester household and it apparently isn't a thing for Castiel either, despite his supposed professional ties to Christianity.

The dearth of visitors leaves the three of them available to spend more time together. Whenever Sam and Castiel aren't secreted in the third bedroom, Dean makes them help scrub the kitchen and the bathrooms to a bleach-clean sparkle. They sweep, dust, and polish the floors of the entire downstairs and clean out the junked or broken furniture. Sam takes the nicer pieces Castiel either doesn't want or doesn't know the origin of to an antique shop in the next town over, and Castiel lets him keep the proceeds as something like an early Christmas present.

Dean suffers a moment of childish jealousy at that, but Castiel just shrugs in the face of it. "Most of this was here when I moved in. I don't see why I should profit from selling it instead of Sam when it was his idea." Sam buys a rug, some curtains, and a poster of some black and white artsy-fartsy photography for his room, and beams all through the weekend. Whatever feelings of inadequacy and resentment may exist for Dean pale in comparison to seeing Sammy happy.

The heaviest snows come two days before Christmas. While returning the rented equipment and unused paint to the hardware store, Dean finds a carton of cheap lights in the 50% Off Bin. The packaging's been opened and taped back together, but the lights themselves look untouched. When he brings them up the register, the manager brushes off his offer to pick up a shift or two in exchange for the sale price with a scoffed, "Are you crazy? You've been half my revenue this quarter, just take it." She tosses a couple strands of garland and a fake wreath in the top of the bag. "Merry Christmas," she wishes, smiling as she hands over the plastic bag, and Dean drives to the house feeling warm with small town charm.

In a surprise twist, Castiel goes to church Christmas morning, leaving Dean and Sam to laze around the kitchen in pajamas on their own. The Christmas lights string from the ceiling, the wreath mounted above the table on the wall.  Garlands hang over the windows. Sam produces a couple jugs of eggnog he bought with what was left of the antiques money and a new window scraper for the Impala stuck with a red bow.

"Aw, thanks, Sammy," Dean mocks, leaning heavily on the sarcasm to cover for the unexpected clench in his chest. He can count the number of gifts he's ever received on one hand. "But I didn't know we were doing gifts. I didn't get you anything."

"It's okay." Sam takes a long pull from his beer bottle, legs out-stretched in front of him and ankles crossed. He looks like nothing in the world could be better. "Just being here. That's enough for me."

Even if that's not how Sam means it, it still feels like gratitude for all the work Dean's put in to keeping them here. He raises his own bottle in return and clinks it against Sam's. "I'll toast to that."

By the time Castiel returns, they're both a little drunk on beer and eggnog. Instead of disappearing into the attic like usual, Castiel sits down at the table, talking with Sam and working to eradicate his own sobriety. Dean heats up the roast chicken Sam picked up with the alcohol, along with some potatoes and carrots, and together the three of them manage to have a shabby-chic Christmas dinner.

 

* * *

The fact that Castiel waits as long as he does to bring it up could be considered an act of deference to the mood of the household following the holidays. The weeks after Christmas and New Years, Sam and Dean spend lounging in the kitchen watching TV or playing card games at night across the table. Castiel joins them a few times, cajoled into participation after Dean finds a battered copy of Risk on one of the shelves in the closet and Sam wheedles and pleads that two-person Risk is boring. Castiel wins. Indisputably. He stays seated in quiet satisfaction after the game, under the wary appraisal of both Dean and Sam. People seeking Castiel's help begin to return the second week of January, leaving less time for games, but Castiel starts to linger in the kitchen during meal times. He still won't eat but he sits with them while they eat whatever Dean managed to scratch up that night from cheap cans and boxed food.

He can't afford to buy better at the grocery store or to order a burger from the Copper Kettle or get a drink at Johnnie's. Even with the money they save on gas by not being on the road all day, he might need to start selling body fluids at the blood donation center a few towns over to keep food on the table.

On the Monday ten days before his birthday, Castiel knocks on the door to his bedroom. And because Castiel doesn't sleep like normal people, he knocks on the door at six in the morning. Like he has any justifiable reason to expect Dean to be bright-eyed and bushytailed instead of dead to the world, or at least wishing he was.

Sam kept him up late the night before watching Twilight Zone reruns and drinking a bottle of Castiel's whiskey, since Dean can't afford to buy his own anymore. So, okay, maybe Sam clocked out a few hours before Dean did, drooling on Dean's shoulder until Dean nudged him upstairs to bed, but the hangover Dean has is definitely still Sam's fault.

Castiel knocks again when Dean doesn't answer. "Dean."

The back of his head feels like it met the angry end of a baseball bat. "Whhh? Go 'way," he whines into the pillow. Castiel takes that as an invitation to come in, proving once again, Dean is sure of it, that he was in fact raised in a box.

"Dean?" Castiel says from somewhere above Dean's head. "It's Monday."

"Thanks for the update, Sesame Street."

Castiel makes a long suffering sound through his nose. "Do you enjoy making references I don't understand?"

Usually the answer to that would be yes. But Dean's too tired and his head hurts too much to get any joy out of pushing Castiel's buttons right now. All he can do is summon a weak, gargled moan and pushes his face further into the pillow in the hopes of suffocating himself. At least then he could sleep.

After a blank passage of time that might be two minutes or twenty, Dean wakes up to the sudden shift of the mattress beneath his hip as Castiel eases down against the edge of the bed. "Dean," Castiel says, voice soft. A shadow passes over Dean's eyes but no touch follows it. "Dean, I don't wish to disturb you—" and wow, really, Castiel is doing a piss-poor job of that so far "—but as it is Monday," Castiel continues, voice growing sharper like he can hear Dean's mental mockery, "I expect to collect both the rent and my fees today at breakfast. I wanted to assure that you had found a solution to your earlier money troubles."

Fuck. _Fuck_. Dean rolls over onto his back to gawp slack-jawed at the ceiling. He covers his eyes with his hand and swears. "Fuck."

He's been out of housework since before Christmas. It was only a matter of time before Castiel called him on it.

"I had also considered that with the holidays," Castiel goes on, words coming out clumsy and diffident with care, "that it may have slipped your mind."

That might be an acceptable excuse for a few days after the holiday. At max, a week. This is more like something that Dean's mind has been actively keeping from him, sparing him the panic and self-loathing he's feeling now. What happened to that master plan he was going to come up with?

The last thing he wants is Castiel's awkward attempts at understanding. Dean turns his head to glower at him. "Is this you trying to be nice?" At Castiel's wide-eyed look of innocence, Dean squeezes his eyes shut and rolls back to face the ceiling. "Well stop," he mutters, already hating himself as the words come out. "You fucking suck at it."

Castiel stiffens next to him and it doesn't occur to Dean until after it's gone that Castiel had been relaxed sitting on Dean's bed with him. He doesn't have time right now to feel guilt for hurting Castiel's feelings. He needs to come up with a plan and he needs to come up with it fast, before Castiel decides to boot them out the door. Sam is never going to forgive him.

Dean swallows. "I'll get you the money, okay? Just—just leave me alone."

"Fine," Castiel says, and yeah, that tone says everything about how much of their former camaraderie Dean just pissed away. Castiel's not going to be eating or drinking or playing board games with them again anytime soon. Even if Dean magically finds 600 bucks in his sock drawer, Sam will still be upset. "Nine o'clock on the dot. Don't be late."

Dean stays in bed feeling sorry for himself for the rest of the day. There isn't a magic 600 dollars in any of his drawers, and the only things waiting for him outside his room are a heartbroken Sam and a wrathful Castiel.  The little voice in his head calls him a coward but, like everything else, he ignores it.  

 

* * *

By sundown, Castiel hasn't hunted Dean down to throw him out. Sam hasn't burst into his room to accuse Dean of ruining his life. The only thing yelling at him is his stomach, grumpy and hollow from not having been fed all day. Slipping into the hallway, through the half-open door across from his, he spots Sam on his bed scribbling in the dream journal Castiel asked him to keep. There's a noted absence of rended garments and gnashing teeth.  

Castiel is downstairs in the sitting room with a client. Padding quietly down the stairs in socked feet, Dean can hear the low rumble of his voice through the walls, followed by a higher, softer voice. One thing he's come to like about Castiel is that he doesn't know how to act towards religious fanatics either. "Go with God," the woman tells him before she leaves, and Castiel answers back with an ambivalent, "All right."

The fact that he won't get to hear Castiel's bewilderment in normal social exchanges in the future spreads an oil-slick of sadness across his shoulders. The stupid bastard's maybe grown on him.

Escaping to the kitchen, Dean heats up a can of soup and starts a pot of coffee. Castiel enters a few minutes later after showing the woman to the door. He freezes upon seeing Dean and Dean freezes in the act of pouring coffee. For a long time there's nothing but the sound of the wall clock ticking out the loud seconds.

"Uh. Hey," Dean manages eventually.

For a moment, he thinks Castiel will ignore him but then Castiel inclines his head and crosses the room to pull a mug out of the cabinet. "Hello."

Dean watches with great interest as Castiel pours himself a cup of coffee. "So. I guess I missed the deadline this morning."

"I noticed," Castiel says impenetrably, stirring in milk and sugar.

Dean doesn't know if he's getting better at translating Castiel to English to be able to hear a note of reproof behind the words, but he feels shittier about everything all the same. "You didn't tell Sam." He looks down into his coffee and then quietly adds, "Thanks."

Castiel lifts his head in his direction, but his eyes don't quite slide all the way sideways to land on Dean. "Tell Sam what?"

"About evicting us. About . . . " He doesn't know what else Castiel thinks Dean wouldn't want Sam to be told. "About that I can't pay you."

Castiel says nothing. He stirs his coffee, despite the fact everything's well mixed together by now, and stares at the counter with his head bowed. Like some great stone statue that has weathered eternity itself. "I haven't decided. Yet. If I will evict you or not."

The breath hitches in Dean's throat. He swallows. "What?" he asks dumbly.

"I haven't decided yet," Castiel repeats, head down, explaining nothing.

"But . . . " Dean can't figure out what to say. Restless tension flexes his fingers in and out of a fist against his chest. "But I can't pay. And I, I was kind of . . . " Guilt, and the anger at it, flood under his tongue. He hates the way everything in life is always his fault. But if there's even a chance Castiel won't throw them out, he owes it to Sam not to waste it. "I mean, I was kind of a dick to you this morning."

Like the slow fall of an executioner's ax, Castiel's head swings around to meet his eyes. He thinks Castiel will snap something sarcastic and cutting, but the only thing that comes out after a second is a low, quiet, "Yes. You were."

And dammit if that doesn't punch the air out of Dean's lungs better than any insult.

"I'm sorry," he says, thin and reedy. In a fit of unrivaled stupidity, he feels like crying. Castiel has never met John Winchester, but he can imitate the man perfectly when it comes to dishing out cold disappointment. "I didn't . . ." Dean grinds his knuckles into the corner of his eye and sucks in a deep breath. "I don't know why I said that stuff. Or yeah I do." He scoffs. "I was pissed with myself and I took it out on you. You were being nice. You _have_ been nice," he says, meeting Castiel's eyes. "Helping Sam and, and being his friend and being flexible about how we pay you back."  He raises his eyebrows in a plea. "It'd be nice if you could keep being flexible."

Castiel walks over to sit at the kitchen table. "I'm out of chores for you to do."

"I _know_ ," Dean grinds out, not needing the reminder of how hopeless this is, and then slumps down in the chair across from Castiel. He rubs at the bridge of his nose. "Look, I'm not asking for a free pass. I get it; you got bills too. But it's not like me and Sam make a lot of money doing what we do."

Or any money, for that matter. Castiel did pretty good, in fact, turning his skill set into a profit.

"You're hunters."

Surprise jerks Dean's head up. Sam must have told him at some point. Or Castiel figured it out on his own. It's not like Sam Winchester: Walking, Talking Dictionary of the Occult is subtle. Dean may not be so subtle about it either.

"Yeah," Dean admits, and then slumps back against the chair. "With a big, fat paycheck of squat."

Castiel takes a sip of coffee and nods along. "It's a noble profession, hunting. Perhaps even more so for being exceptionally thankless. It speaks highly of both your and Sam's characters."

The compliment comes out of nowhere. It just goes to show how pathetic Dean is, squirming internally under the low-level flattery. "Gee, thanks," he mutters, about as graceful as bull. But he doesn't want to blow Castiel off when they're just starting to get along again. "So: Do you hunt?"

"I have. In the distant past," Castiel says. "My knowledge base overlaps with that used in hunting." He jerks one shoulder, a sly twist tugging at his mouth. "You could say I used to moonlight. When the occasion called for it."

Dean laughs. "Wow. Faith healer by day, hunter by night. You're like a superhero."

A muscle spasm cripples Castiel's features. It's a smile only in the most technical sense. Pain drives it, and bitter self-incrimination. "I used to think so," Castiel murmurs, staring down at his hands on the table. His fingers curl and uncurl against his palms. "Once I wanted to believe . . . oh, a great many things." A resentful huff of a laugh escapes him. "I still do, I suppose. But faith comes at a price."

Castiel said that to him once before. At the time Dean thought he meant fair payment, that faith healing came at a price, good old-fashioned capitalism at work.  

He can't help it. "What price did you pay?" he asks after a second.

Castiel's head snap up, and in his eyes—Dean doesn't know what he sees. All he can think of is that line from M*A*S*H. How anger turned inwards is depression; and anger turned sideways is, well, Castiel in this case. He has to look away. Anger can be its own form of corruption. That kind of anger is like a fire. It consumes as it destroys, including the person who bears it. He saw it in his dad. He sees the beginning flickers of it in Sammy. On bad days, he patrols the mirror to watch for glimpses of it in his own reflection.

"My—family," Castiel finally says, after Dean thinks he won't answer, "has a strict policy for non-believers. For non-compliance." Dean risks a glance, but whatever was in Castiel's face a second ago is gone again. Hidden behind iron lock and key.

A shiver runs down his spine. What would happen if someone broke through that hard-won self-control? Who would Castiel be if he let the fire out?

At least that style parenting rings familiar. "They kicked you out."

"Yes." That explains the lack of references to family members missing from his records.

"That sucks."

Castiel huffs another one of those blunt-edged laughs at the assessment, then lifts his drink to down the contents in a series of swallows. Dean watches his Adam's apple bob against the long line of his throat.

"My dad was like that," Dean continues, mulling over the right words. "He didn't kick either of us out, though Sammy might tell you otherwise, but he was definitely . . . It was his way or the highway, you know?"

On the table, Castiel curls his hands around his empty mug, cradling it like a touchstone. "Yes. I've not had many people to speak to in my life. Before you and your brother. I've found our interactions to be . . . pleasant," Castiel finally decides, as though he might have reason to regret it later. "Particularly with your brother. He is—"

"Yeah." Dean grins. "Sammy's a great kid." He props an elbow on the table to lean towards Castiel. "He likes you too, you know." The bald look of surprise on Castiel's face makes Dean want to laugh. "Pretty sure it'd break his heart if we had to leave."

"I don't want you to," Castiel murmurs into his mug. "But I can't afford to keep you."

He sounds about as fucked up about it as Dean feels. "Hey, I'd keep doing the barter system. If you can come up with something else you need or that I can do for you." He hopes Castiel will take the bait to start listing out suggestions, but Castiel just keep staring at the table. "I mean, I cook pretty decent?"

Castiel shakes his head. "I don't desire food."

Dean tries to reign in his sense of helpless frustration. There's got to be something. "Okay, well. What do you desire?"

"Drugs. Sex," Castiel says after a beat, like Dean hasn't picked up yet that those are his two primary hobbies. "Money for both."

"Okay, drugs, can't help. Sex—" Well. He flicks his eyes over Castiel's hunched form. It's been a while but he bets he can still give a passable blowjob. He waits for Castiel to look up at him and then asks, "How much do you pay those buddies of yours? The guy and the girl."

Castiel doesn't bother to waste time on embarrassment or pretending not to know what Dean is talking about. "Quite a lot," he admits. "I've worked with them for years. We're accustomed to each other now."

Dean's heart thumps wildly in his chest as he swallows. They're probably not as _accustomed_ to each other as Castiel's current employees, but. "How much would you be willing to pay me?" He keeps his voice from cracking, steady. Somehow he knows if he shows any signs of hesitation, Castiel will turn him down.   

Castiel tilts his head at him speculatively. "Are you offering? 

He doesn't turn Dean down.  


	5. Chapter 5

Tonight is a trial run. If Castiel likes him, the situation becomes permanent, Monday and Thursday nights on the regular. If Castiel doesn't, then Dean is SOL and back to square one.

Dean is determined to blow Castiel's fucking socks off. The money Castiel is willing to offer for a full night of fun is a fuck-ton more than the measly twenty or forty dollars Dean used to get turning tricks at truck stops. It's enough to cover both rent and Castiel's fees, with a little left over each week. Dean may actually get to start drinking at the bar again. Hell, maybe he'll buy a poster or two for his room.

There are other rules Castiel has: no condoms; no expectations of monogamy or emotional commitment. Dean is free to sleep with whoever else he wants and doesn't need to worry about STDs with a guy who can return sight to the blind. It's a pretty sweet deal if he can land it.

He knocks on the door to the attic that night at 9:30 prompt, as agreed, and then follows Castiel up the spiraling flight of stairs. This will be the first time he sees in the inside of Castiel's room. Castiel is private, almost obsessively so. Being invited into his space is a different form of intimacy, but one Dean can still feel pressing around him from all sides as Castiel unlocks his bedroom door.   

The first thing Dean sees is the stained glass window. It dominates the entire left wall, sweeping from floor to apex of the exposed ceiling beams. Candles flicker in front of it, suffusing the room with smoky warmth, and Dean remembers standing outside months ago, staring up at the radiant jeweled light with the pulsing beat of music in the distance. Castiel has similar stuff on tonight, a steady beat that slips and scratches over itself as a low throb in the background.

A wide bed occupies the center of the room, low against the floor. Pillows in rich velvets and warm silks pile on top it. More pillows form a seating area on the floor in front of the window.

Dean turns to admire the space, taking in the second half of Castiel's knife collection displayed on the far right wall. More books live up here, along with artifacts and statues. Some Dean doesn't recognize. The ones he does, he knows to be dangerous. "So this is where you keep the good stuff."

"It's safer," Castiel says with a tiny half-shrug.

The guys at truck stops always grabbed his head once their deal was made, pushing him where they wanted, or otherwise expected Dean to crash to his knees with enthusiasm, knowing his place and their wants like a mind reader. Castiel doesn’t do either. He stands in the middle of the room, his arms hanging limp at his sides. Radiating awkwardness. Dean steps up to him and, after a moment of hesitation, curls a palm over Castiel's hip. Hoping to break some of the tension, he jokes, "You should meet my friend Bobby. He'd kill for some of this stuff." The close proximity means Castiel has to tilt his head back to meet Dean's eyes, just a little, giving Dean a close-up view of the way Castiel's eyes tense up in irritable confusion. Dean smiles reassuringly. "Later, though."

He brushes a kiss at Castiel's neck and then swipes his tongue over the black whorls of ink, tracing the lines down to the collar of Castiel's robe. Castiel places a hand on his shoulder but doesn't relax.

"Nervous?" Dean whispers.

"I—yes," Castiel says after a second. "I haven't done this with someone new in—in a very long time."

He scrapes his teeth over the bolt of Castiel's jaw. Castiel grunts. Could be either good or bad, Dean can't tell. "Yeah, first times can be a little nerve-wracking. Or exciting? Getting to learn a new person. What makes them tick." He tugs to loosen the belt to Castiel's robe and then helps to push it off his shoulders. "What makes them moan." He steps back to look at all the new skin revealed.

Black swirls of script ascend from the back of Castiel's hands to wind around his arms up to his shoulders, where it absorbs into another design. Dark shading drapes the top of Castiel's shoulders, small, sharp diamonds like interlocking plates of armor, curving down the outer line of his biceps to his elbows. His stomach is taut, shadows outlining the curve of his ribcage and flare of his hips. The inked collar emphasizes the line of his collar bones where it meets golden, unmarked skin.

Hell yes. Castiel is a fucking work of art, both the lines of his body and those on his skin.

Dean sucks in a deep breath and lifts his eyes to Castiel's. "So. Where do you want to start?"

Castiel's chest rises and falls with deep, even breaths, his gaze possessing its own magnetic field. "Take off your shirt." When Dean starts to comply, he adds, "And your pants."

Dean strips down in front of him, plucking at the waistband of his boxers restlessly when they're the only article of clothing to remain. Jesus, just from Castiel watching him, he's already half-hard.

"Get on the bed," Castiel says.

The mattress gives easily under his weight when Dean lies back against the pillows. Castiel kneels between his split thighs and drops his hands to bracket Dean's hips, his body blanketing Dean under warm muscle and bone. "God," Dean laughs, arching up into the heavy weight. He’s missed the feeling of another person on top of him.

Castiel gives him a brief, teasing smile. "Don't blaspheme, Dean."

The first touch of Castiel's mouth to his chest is soft and wet. A tongue laves over his nipple, followed by the harsh rasp of stubble, and Dean sighs, going boneless against the bed. His hands slip into Castiel's thick hair as Castiel's mouth cuts a lazy path across the line of his ribs. The hint of teeth comes sudden and sharp at the sensitive flesh below his navel, the sting soothed instantly by an apologetic tongue.

Fingers curl under his waistband as Castiel noses into the hollow of his hip, tugging his boxers down to cling to the tops of his thighs. Teeth scrape the ridge of his hipbone in warning before Castiel's mouth seals over the crevice between his thigh and hip, sucking a hard, relentless kiss. Blood rises to the surface of his skin and Dean arches along with it. His fingers tighten in Castiel's hair as Castiel tongues the thrumming of his pulse, hips beginning to rock into the steady, heated suction of Castiel's mouth. "Cas—" Dean gasps and is rewarded with a low growl that vibrates up into his chest, making his nipples peak. Then Castiel bites.

"Fuck." He's going to come from just a fucking hickey. His hips jerk as Castiel's teeth sink into the sensitive skin with slow, unyielding pressure, spiraling sparks along his nerves and lighting Dean up electric. His senses narrow down to that single point, drowning in the soft, sucking pliancy of Castiel's merciless mouth. A hot ache radiates through his groin, mounting pressure in his balls, clenching tight his asshole. "Please," Dean begs, shocked by the hoarse rasp of his own voice. Spots dance under his eyelids. "Cas—"

A wet sound consumes the air as Castiel rips his mouth away. He glides his tongue over the edges of the bruise, teasing the untouched skin that surrounds it with tiny licks. When he sucks suddenly again, the deep throb of sensation ricochets up Dean's spine and blurts pre-come onto his stomach.

Dean keens. "Fuck, Ca—please. Get up here. Get up here." He pulls at Castiel's hair until Castiel obeys, slinking up Dean's body to sit astride his stomach.

In the candlelight, Castiel's eyes glow the palest sea foam green, almost colorless, his hair sticking out wild from the top of his head. His mouth is a puffy red, stretched wide and elated as he grins down at Dean. Pink gums rim white teeth. A rough palm soothes over the side of his face as Castiel huffs out a happy laugh.

Dean folds his fingers over the flare of Castiel's hipbones, massaging the hollows with his thumbs. The black material of his sweatpants doesn't hide his prominent erection, the weight of his dick dragging the waistband away from his stomach.

"Pull it out," Dean breathes, heart thumping in his throat. "Let's see it."

Castiel stretches his waistband over his dick and hooks it behind his balls. Thick knuckles on long fingers close around the base and drag upwards, pushing his foreskin over a pretty, flushed pink tip before drawing back again. Mouth dry, Dean watches as Castiel pumps his dick a few times, squeezing out a pearl of pre-come from the slit. Without thinking about it, Dean cranes his head forward to catch the drop on his tongue, musty pungency suffusing his mouth as he swallows.

Above him, Castiel heaves a shuddering breath, hand frozen and fingers clutching at the shaft just below the flared head. Dean looks up at him, taking in thick eyelashes and round, dark pupils, the pink flush that strips the bridge of Castiel's nose, and decides the taste isn't as bad as he remembers. Neither is the company this time. He flicks his tongue against the tip of Castiel's dick again, and then suckles at it, listening as Castiel's breathing goes deep and harsh.

It takes some convincing but Dean digs his fingers into the meat of Castiel's flank until Castiel starts to rock shallowly into his mouth. The thick shaft slides across his tongue, in and out, head nudging insistently against the back of his palette. Saliva floods his mouth from the salt. It's uncomfortable until Dean finds the right angle and then Castiel slips hot and full against the back of his throat. He moans in regret when the full feeling disappears, but Cas is so, so smart and pushes right back in, harder this time. Dean's eyes flutter close when strong fingers skate his neck to brace the back of his skull, rubbing small, soothing circles against the short hair there as Castiel fucks his mouth in hard, abbreviated thrusts. Harsh exhales from above mimic the rhythm of Castiel's hips, the syncopation hypnotic and consuming.

Dean feels like he's floating and he hasn't even come. He could do this for hours. Wants to. After they finish the first round, he wants to flip Castiel on his back and start the next, figure out what will make Cas scream and watch his face as he comes. Wiggling a hand between Castiel's thighs, he grips himself and starts to jack off to the same pounding pace of Castiel's breaths. Sucks harder when Cas grunts and his hips twitch, wanting to hear more of Cas's voice now that his movements go jerky as he nears orgasm.

Dean hums encouragement, working his own dick faster. Feels Cas's thighs tremble against his forearm. Orgasm jackknifes through him, sudden and intense, and he whines out the furor around Cas's dick. His head is too foggy to mind when Castiel growls and tugs his head forward, forcing Dean to swallow his full length as he comes down the back of Dean's throat.

Castiel's dick suffocating him, he manages to hold his breath for a handful of seconds, but then he has to wrench his head to the side, coughing and gasping wetly when Castiel pulls out. Cas's hands stroke over his face, brushing away the hint of moisture of the corner of his eye and stroking the hair back from his forehead. Dean shivers and nuzzles into the affection, boneless and sated and never wanting to move again.

He palms over the sweaty dip at the small of Castiel's back and licks his cracked lips. "Damn." A tired, amazed laugh escapes him when Castiel breathes, "Are you all right?", and Dean slits his eyes open enough to glance up at him.

Cas is frowning down at him, nails running light, ticklish patterns over the side of Dean's scalp and behind his ear. Dean shivers again, warmed by the concern.

"Yup." He grins up at Cas. "You?"

Cas's anxious expression smoothes out into one of unbearable smugness, and Dean laughs again. "I am very satisfied," Cas says. The verbal confirmation is nice even if Dean already suspected. It seems like he aced the interview and has the job in the bag. "Would you like some water?" Cas asks. "There's a small washroom through that door if you would like to clean up, and I have bottled water for you to drink."

"Thanks, yeah. Water sounds good." Dean sits up when Cas slides off him and stretches out his sore muscles, cracking his neck from side to side. He watches as Cas turns around to grab a water bottle from a box of them and then gets hit with the realization of just what Castiel's second tattoo design is.

A pair of large, black wings paint Castiel's skin from the tops of his shoulders to the small of his back. The heavy shading resolves into a thick cascade of feathers, sharp and steely, flowing across the arch of Castiel's shoulder blades and sweeping up across the backs of his arms. A tighter, knotted design limns his spine, imitating the muscle and gristle of a joint where the wings would connect to his back.

It looks fucking cool.

"I like your tattoos," Dean says as Cas passes him a bottle and climbs back onto the bed.

Cas stretches out on his side across the mattress, head propped up in his hand. "Thank you. I notice you don't have any."

Dean shrugs and takes a drink of water. "Maybe one day I'll get one. Nothing like yours though. That must have taken years."

"About two weeks," Cas says, and huffs a laugh when Dean almost chokes on his water. Dean runs his fingers over the twists and swirls on Cas's forearm, trying to figure out how something that extensive takes only weeks. "I heal quickly," Cas explains, like he can track Dean's thoughts. "At first I was foolish and tried to cut—" He stops when Dean's head jerks up and smiles apologetically. "But the wounds healed up in a matter of moments and left no scars. Then I discovered tattooing. Unlike scars, tattoos don't disappear when they heal. And my abilities gave me an advanced recovery time." Castiel rolls his head against his shoulder lazily and grins like the sun at Dean. "I was pleased by that discovery."

Dean keeps tracing the swooped lines and flicks, and remembers when he first thought Castiel's tattoos looked like a language. "Do they mean something?"

"Protection. For the most part." Cas rotates his arm so Dean can trail the light touches to dance along the inside of his wrist. "Strength, some of them.  They help focus my abilities. Like a conduit. To make me better at what I do. I have a book on Enochian spellwork if you're interested; I already loaned it to Sam."

The question niggles in his mind. He needs to know but he doesn't want to ask. It's nice to sit here with Cas, the endorphins from orgasm leaving them both complacent. Even after months watching Castiel slump and shuffle through the house, Dean's never seen him look like this, indolent and golden in the candlelight, radiating a confident peace. A selfish part of him wants to keep it, wants to keep this moment and others like it that will come. To let himself just be happy for once. But he owes it to Sammy to find out.

Cas must see something in his face because he rolls his wrist to catch Dean's fingers. "What is it?"

Dean swallows and watches Castiel play with his fingertips. "Cas, what are you? I mean, are you a psychic? Are you—Wolverine? What?" He gives Cas a pinched smile. "I got to know, man. I got to know what you're doing with Sammy."

The answer doesn't come for a long time, but then Cas lifts his head and says, "All right. I'll speak to Sam. Get his permission to show you what we've been doing." Dean blows out a relieved breath.

"Thanks, Cas."

 

* * *

 

Before the night ends, he makes Castiel come three more times, the last time with Castiel tucked against his chest as the first pale morning rays highlight the dust motes floating in the air, lazily mouthing Castiel's neck and his dick riding the space behind Castiel's balls. The sudden break of dawn bakes the stained glass into a vibrant iridescence, like Dean's own reflection when Castiel ignites a final orgasm in him. After, Dean wipes himself clean with a damp rag and Castiel hands over his first payment from the wooden box he collects his fees in.

Dean hands ninety percent of it straight back. "Rent and fees, paid in full. Less than twenty-four hours late." His palm beats a self-satisfied tattoo against his chest, grinning madly when Castiel looks like he wants to do nothing more than roll his eyes. "Pleasure doing business with you. And I do mean that literally."

Good sex— _great_ sex—has the unfortunate side effect of leaving Dean playful and high strung, excitable. He all but bounces down the stairs from the attic, pantomiming air drums off the banister and walls. Sleep is the last thing his body craves, illuminated with possibilities, and he makes plans of just how much food he's going to cook Sam for breakfast while he showers clean the film of sweat and semen from his stomach and between his thighs.

Twenty minutes later, he's passed out naked on top of the covers, after intending to sit down for just a second to change his underwear. He doesn't wake up until an embarrassingly late noon.

 

* * *

 

For several days, neither Castiel nor Sam bring up the topic of showing Dean what they've been doing together. Castiel made it sound as though it had been Sam's choice alone to keep the information private. Anytime in the past Dean tried to dig for details, Sammy either stonewalled him or acted cornered and harassed. Not awesome signs, but Dean tries not to let the anxiety get the better of him this time. If Sam needs time to feel comfortable including him, Dean can be patient. Kind of.

It helps that he has a second fantastic night with Castiel on Thursday to distract him. Sam makes faces at his good mood and teases him when Dean drags him out to hit a Saturday matinee at the old school, two screen cinema in town for his birthday. But Sam doesn't call him on anything or start to ask awkward questions Dean doesn't know how to answer, so Dean elects magnanimously to return the favor. He trusts Castiel to convince Sam to agree.

He starts to reconsider that trust a few weekends later when Castiel summons him to the sitting room.

They've already pushed the furniture back when Dean walks in, the center of the room left open and bare except for the rug on the floor that hides the devil's trap. Without the clutter, the space is large and circular. Dean spins in the middle of it as Castiel kicks a long folding table new from the box into behaving at the far side of the room.

"We're not having, like, mandatory group dance lessons now or something, are we? The beatings will continue until morale improves?"

He has the pleasure of watching Castiel's face contort through several paroxysms as Castiel freezes breaking down the box before his expression lands on haunted. "What? Why? I don't understand. What could possibly motivate a human being to do that in the sight of others?"

As much as Dean needs to delete and burn Castiel's entire music collection, he does have a long ago memory of watching Castiel head bob with the best of them to the beat. "Not a fan of dancing, huh, Cas?" Castiel's eyes narrow sharply at his knowing grin, and Dean can almost hear the Dolby Digital Surround thunder rumble ominously in the background as Castiel brushes past him carrying the box.

"You know nothing and you saw nothing," Castiel threatens, and Dean laughs.

Sam comes in with another box containing a random assortment of knickknacks. Dean watches him line them up on the table Castiel set up, but can't deduce an obvious purpose or pattern. They look scavenged from all over the house: an empty beer bottle, one of the bedside alarm clocks, a grey book missing its jacket, a pocket knife, one of the apples from the kitchen Dean just bought yesterday.  A piece of dead branch completes the line up, each item arranged on the table with even gaps between them. If Dean had to guess and compare it to something, he'd say it looks like a makeshift shooting range, the kind he used to set up for kicks in Bobby's yard when they were kids. He doesn't know why anyone would set one up inside or with stuff they use on a daily basis.

All morning Sam has been avoiding his eyes and continues to do so now. Stepping away from the table, he stands next to Dean hugging his chest, fingers latched onto his upper arms, and shies away whenever Dean peers over at him. Dean finally leans hard into his space so that Sam has no choice but to either move or over-balance onto the floor.

"Yo. Earth to Sammy." When Sam stumbles a step sideways and gives Dean a glare, Dean smiles. "Hi there."

"Hi," Sam mumbles.

"So you're not hiding anything or building up to anything with all this." He waves a hand through the air and then clicks his tongue and taps the side of his nose "Got it. Super smooth."

Sam gives a thin chuckle and shrugs. "Okay, so I'm a little nervous. Cas said you wanted to see the progress we've made and I'm . . . " And then Dean gets it. This is Sam before every science fair, before every soccer game, the months waiting for the test results from his SATs and ACTs. This is Sam desperate to impress and half as convinced he'll fail. Dean slaps him in the chest.

"Hey. I'm down for this." He eyes the table as Castiel returns to the room. "Though I got to say, if you and Cas are going to give me a sales demonstration and a condo pitch, I want my free tickets to Disneyland up front."

"All subsidiaries and free gifts are to remain at the sole discretion of the corporation," Castiel says, leaning against the edge of the couch and crossing his arms. Dean shoots him a look that Castiel ignores; just because they're having hot sex now doesn't give Castiel the right to wave his weird sense of humor around whenever he feels like it. "If you would like to begin, Sam, you may. Dean, please move out of the way."

Dean steps aside to stand next to a bookcase opposite Castiel and watches as Sam stations himself about ten feet across the room from the table.  Raising his right hand in the air like a conductor waiting to launch a symphony, Sam glances at Castiel for the nod to proceed. A sick sense of dread curdles in Dean's stomach. It burns the back of his throat as Sam's face tenses up and his hand begins to rotate. Across the room on the table, the beer bottle trembles and rattles, and then slowly, slowly floats up into the air. After five feet, it sinks again, settling into its original position as Sam exhales a sharp breath.

"That was very good, Sam," Castiel says, while Dean gasps for air.

"What the _fuck_?"

Sam freezes in shoving sweaty hair back from his head. Dean blunders past him to grab the lapels of Castiel's lying bastard bathrobe. He jerks Castiel forward and slams him back into the corner of a glass display case next to the couch. Several of its scrolls tumble from their shelves on impact. "You're suppose to be fucking curing him! Not making him worse!"

"I'm not making him worse," Castiel argues, eyebrows bunched in stubborn defiance. He doesn't even have the decency to sound winded. "And if you had the slightest bit of appreciation for the complexities involved in—"

"I don't care about your fucking complexities," Dean hisses. "I care about my brother not turning evil from using some fucked up demon powers!" He rams Castiel into the case again, snapping his head back into the hard edge with a wet crack. When Castiel touches his fingertips to the back of his skull, they come away smeared with blood.

The lights in the room flicker, the overhead lamp creaking as it swings in its moorings, despite the lack of wind indoors.

Castiel's eyes narrow dangerously. "Power by itself is a moral neutral. In a vacuum it simply is or is not. It can be used for either good or evil, depending on the moral capacity and intentions of its wielder." His body hangs limp in Dean's grasp, displaying passive non-resistance. His head lolls to the side in that damn confused bird look, eyes widening with impeccable sincerity. "Dean, at heart Sam is _good_."

"What?" Dean frowns, and snaps, "I know that."

"Good," Castiel says, like that answers everything. "Then release me."

Unnerved, Dean finds himself doing as requested. Something in Castiel's eyes makes him hard to defy, a certain habit he has of looking at Dean that makes Dean’s body go calm and compliant while inside Dean knows he should be punching through walls and pinning Castiel down by the neck. Blowing out a breath, he claws his fingers through his hair and swallows the last of his cooling rage. "What the hell are you talking about?"

"He means the powers aren't the problem, Dean." Sam comes up next to him and lays a hand on his shoulder, face flushed from the intensity of the atmosphere and his earlier exertion. "Think of all the people who can do stuff just because. Like Missouri. She's psychic but she's not evil. Right? Cas has been teaching me what I can do and how to control it, so I can use it for good."

Sammy doesn't look like he's about to start a mass killing spree. He looks sweet and kind and earnest, the same face Dean has spent years staring at across the length of a motel room or the front seat of the Impala. "Sammy . . ." His words evaporate into an anxious wheeze. "Stuff like this—it doesn't come without a price. What about what Scott Carey? Yellow Eyes telling him to hurt things?"

"It did come at a price," Sam practically whines. "If it was Yellow Eyes that corrupted me or whatever as a baby. Then—Dean." His expression flinches. "Mom died trying to save me. Trying to stop him. I'll always have to live with that. I'll always be responsible for that. For Mom's death. For having this—this _disease_ inside me." Sam swallows hard and Dean can feel the ache of it in his own throat. "But I don't have to listen to him. If I practice . . . If I get strong enough, I can turn this back around and use it for good."

"But how do you know that's not what he wants all along? How do you _know_ ," he insists when Sam looks away from him, "that you're not playing right into his hand?" Sam's jaw locks in defiance, but Dean can't lose him, not over this. He grabs Sam by the shoulders and squeezes, resisting the urge to shake him. "Sammy, look at me. He killed mom. He killed dad. If he takes you too . . . "

And fuck everything when his voice cracks, with Castiel watching them from the corner. He and Sam probably make for the perfect prime time drama.

"He won't," Sam says. "Please, Dean. I need you to believe in this. I need you to believe in _me_. I can do this. I can _choose_."

Dean squeezes his eyes shut, turning away and blinking back useless tears. Castiel said faith comes at a price but this shit is too high. Too hard. He rubs a hand over his mouth, jerking when Sam grabs his wrist and begs, "Please. Remember a few months ago? The thing in Oregon. The Croatoan virus. I didn't get sick. Cas says that might be because I have immunity. Demons originated it but because of whatever I have in me, this corruption, they couldn't touch me. It protected me."

He forces a long exhale through his fingers and shakes his head. "We don't know that for sure."

"It's a pretty educated guess," Sam persists. His eyebrows nearly touch his hairline with conviction. "Okay? There's good sides to this. There's a lot of bad sides too, definitely. But in the end, it's my choice. It's my choice what I am. Cas helped me see that."

From the corner of his eye, he sees Castiel give a short bob of his head in either confirmation or encouragement. The sick feeling in his gut lurches. He thinks he might throw up.

Sam's hand tightens around his wrist, prying his hand down from his mouth and turning Dean to face him. His face is everything Dean's loved for almost twenty-four years, the touchstone of his existence.

"The training helps," Sam says. "And Cas is still looking. To see if he can find a way to cure me. _We_ 're still looking. But Cas was right when he said that there's not much to go on. I've looked through all his books and while we have some ideas, it's nothing definite. And until we can find something. . . " Sam's nails dig deep half-moons into Dean's skin, his eyes wild around the edges. "This is the best shot we got, Dean. And I need you to back me on it." Sam glances around desperately, looking between him and Castiel. "Does everyone get that? I need Dean to back this."

"Your point is taken, Sam," Cas says coolly from his corner, a note of censure in his voice that Dean doesn't have the energy to figure out.

"Yeah." Dean swallows thickly. "I got it. You want me on board." He knows Sam has a point. Some kind of plan is better than no plan. But that doesn't shake the sick, scared roiling of his stomach. One of these days this kid's going to give him an ulcer.

"Yes," Sam breathes. "So . . . ?"

Dean bites down on his lip and closes his eyes. "Yeah. Okay."

Safe behind the pink light beneath his eyelids, he can practically feel the force of Sam's relieved grin. Giving in should be easier than this. It's not like he doesn't have years of practice.


	6. Chapter 6

The rest of the weekend passes with a stiff tension collaring Dean's neck that reminds him of when he had meningitis for a month in high school. Sam no longer hides all the time in the third bedroom with Castiel practicing his upgraded abilities. Instead Dean is forced to spend Sunday watching Sam set the dinner table using only the freaky powers of his mind and listening to Castiel describe the metaphysical differences behind manipulating synthetic versus organic material. Apparently, metals or wood take less effort to manipulate than plastic, due to being found as free elements in nature. Conversely, dead things are easier to control than living organisms, which, according to Castiel, are of a higher complexity and can assert their own will on the environment, even non-sentient entities like plants. The implications of which are not at all creepy and instead highly fascinating, at least if you're named Sam or Castiel.

When Sam asks Castiel with big doe eyes about an opportunity to test his powers under the pressures of a job, Dean drops the dishcloth and walks out, drying soap suds irritating the skin around his nail beds as he drives to Johnnie's.

There is not enough alcohol in the world.

It means on Monday he's hung over and still needs to keep his standing appointment with Castiel that night. Taking the stairs to the attic one by one with heavy feet, Dean hates that his worst fears have been proven true. This thing with Castiel began with such promise. It could have been something good, something great, a tiny slice of pie Dean could keep for himself, content that Sam was safe and free to enjoy the freedom of a stable home base and the comfort of his fast friendship with Castiel. The reveal on Saturday ruined everything.

Pushing open the attic door without bothering to knock, he strips off his shirt in numb efficiency, tossing it to the side before he flops onto the bed and buries his arms around a waiting pillow. Castiel sits under the window on a pile of pillows, his naked back bowed to the bed. His black wings are on display as he bends his head over a bong, the water bubbling as he draws in a large lungful of smoke.

His eyes, when he lifts his head to look at Dean, are squinty and glazed. "Hello," Castiel says, and then burps a puff of smoke. "You seem . . . " Dean watches as his eyes shift around looking for an appropriate description. "Disturbed," Castiel finally selects, with the pristine authority that only the very high can conjure.

Dean has no patience for that. Holding conversations with intoxicated people is only fun when you're right there with them. The rest of the time it's just goddamn annoying. "Look, can we just get this over with?"

Castiel watches him with cool intention, slithers of smoke curling from his nostrils. "I would like to request the number to your hotline. The customer service has degraded over time." The bastard smirks.

"Fuck you," Dean replies, but it lacks any heat. Over the last few weeks he's come to like the smell of Castiel's sheets, the way the different textures catch and slide over his skin. He rubs his face into the silk pillow case, breathing in the memories of Castiel's arm slung comfortably across his back and the quiet of the mornings.

Across the room, the floorboards give a subtle creak as Castiel rises out of his crouch and then the bed dips against Dean's hip. A warm, rough palm skates up the stiff muscles along his spine, pressure perfect. "Dean." Castiel's voice is warm and rich against the back of his ear. Coarse stubble interrupted by soft lips tease the pulse point at the hinge of his jaw. "What's wrong?"

Castiel's careful compassion makes him want to shake apart. "Everything. You. And Sam. The stuff you're doing. I can't—" A tender hand strokes over his hair, soothing his objections. His headache fades away like the tide receding, the acidic sting in the back of his throat from the alcohol dissolving. In its place he feels rested, alert. He turns his head to nuzzle into the drag of knuckles against his cheek. "Did you just heal my hangover?"

"Yes," Castiel answers. "And metabolized the remaining alcohol in your bloodstream. You should take better care of your liver." Dean snorts at being given health advice from someone who could fertilize a marijuana forest with the amount of THC in his blood. "Wait here."

The weight on the mattress disappears and doesn't return. Dean's eyes slip close while he waits, listening for Castiel's presence and trying to convince his muscles to relax into the familiar comfort of Castiel's bed. Somehow he knows Castiel hasn't left the room, despite his ability to move in complete silence, and barely startles when fingers press between his shoulder blades. "Turn over," Castiel instructs, nudging at him. Dean goes, rolling onto his side and blinking in confusion when Castiel kneels next to his head and proffers a joint against his mouth.

"Uh." He ducks away from the paper tip, fingers curling around Castiel's wrist. "So I don't really smoke that stuff anymore."

"You're not adverse to drugs," Castiel says, unrelenting. "When we first met, I detected amphetamines in your system, and alcohol consumption is a daily occurrence for both you and Sam. Try it. It will help relax you."

Because apparently faith healing comes with its own built-in drug test.  "You were that kid everyone bought from in high school, weren't you?" he quips, and dismisses Castiel's questioning eyebrows. It's already hard enough to say no to him. "Yeah, fine. Sure. Why not?"

Castiel holds the joint to his lips again and flicks a lighter. The first pungent gasp of smoke hits the back of his throat, rolling over his tongue as he tries to hold it steady in his lungs. Castiel makes him take two more hits before he does the honors of the last hit himself, then leans over to stub the joint out against the metal bed frame.

Weed wraps the rest of reality in plush cotton, preventing Dean from smacking his head against its sharp edges. It saturates his muscles, pulling them long and elastic like taffy. Quiet sniggers tumble helplessly out of his nose as Castiel reclines against the pillows and pulls Dean's head into his lap.

"Yes," Cas murmurs, fingers tracking through Dean's hair. " I thought so."

He tries and probably fails to muster up a scowl. "Don't be so smug. Mister Smuggity-Smug . . . Smugface."

"Biting," Cas drawls, with enough sarcasm to take down a horse, and Dean keens, rolling over and slinging an arm around Cas's hips.

"I hate what you're doing with Sammy," he mumbles into the smooth skin of Cas's stomach. "I need him to be okay. In order to stay here. In order to do this with you. He's got to be safe. He's got to come first."

For a long time Castiel doesn't say anything. Then: "You think I'm a bad influence on Sam."

"No. I don't—" He cuts himself off with an aggravated growl. If he's honest, that is one of his fears. But he also doesn't believe Cas would do anything purposefully malicious. "I'm just freaked out. You guys are playing with fire and who knows if you know enough to do it safely?"

Cas stays quiet, but Dean can hear him thinking. "I would like to tell you something. About myself. It may explain more of my . . . familiarity with this subject." He stops and Dean realizes he's waiting for confirmation to continue. Swallowing, he rubs his cheek against Cas's thigh in a nod.

"I know what it's like," Cas starts, "to be different. To carry that sense of doubt and . . . _fear_ of yourself. Of what you are, of what you'll become. I see some of my own reflection in Sam. In his struggles to accept himself. To master himself. In his anxieties of being abandoned to suffer his fate."

Dean tilts his head back to stare up at Cas. "He told you that?"

"He didn't have to," Cas says, and traces a fingertip along the curve of Dean's cheek. "It's so obvious to me. I wouldn't know how to unsee it." And right, yeah, Cas's family and the people of Pontiac did that exact thing to him. Sam must be like looking in a mirror for Cas, the dial set a few years in the past.

Unexpected grief compresses his lungs. "I'm not going to abandon Sam. What happened to you isn't going to happen to him."

Cas smiles sadly. "That's not what I meant. You're nothing like my family." He pauses, and then wets his lower lip. "They're powerful. Extraordinarily powerful. Some of the things they've done—" He cuts himself off with a sharp sideways jerk of his head. "Actually I don't know. I wasn't allowed to know much of it. The bigger picture. But there are things I now suspect, things in retrospect that have made me wonder . . ." He trails off, eyes distant for a moment, and then looks down to meet Dean's eyes. His fingers trail a feather-light massage down the side of Dean's neck. "Either way. What I don't know is irrelevant. Years ago I found out something. I was told something. I was asked for my participation in a campaign of sorts."

Dean settles in to listen. "Like a political campaign?"

Cas makes a hesitant sound. "More or less. My brother who asked me, Uriel—"

" _Uriel_?" Dean grins at the look of consternation directed down at him. "Uriel and Castiel. I got to say, man, your parents were harsh about names."

" _Uriel_ ," Castiel emphasizes, "was one of my most favored brothers—"

"Wait," Dean interrupts again. "How many siblings do you have?"

"A lot. Well above average. We're Orthodox Catholic," Castiel adds, with a sly, irritated look Dean doesn't understand. "Uriel and I were close, you could say. It meant something that he should come to me. That he asked for my assistance."

"But you turned him down."

Cas nods. "It was a betrayal. The thing he wanted me to do. Of everything I believed in. It made me question my faith in—in God, in what I was, in what _we_ were. What we were supposed to be. It revealed to me what my family truly was. What it was that we were truly doing."

He is too stoned to figure out all the tiny implications behind that. Whatever it is, it sounds ominous. Beneath his head, Cas has gone tense and solid like resting against smooth stone, the normal pliancy of human flesh eradicated. The tendrils of the thing Dean glimpsed a few weeks ago in the kitchen creep back into his expression, the fire in his eyes cold and deadly and unforgiving.

Dean shivers. He has to ask. "Did they, like, want you to kill someone?"

"Indirectly. Yes. I feared that could be a consequence. Though I admit my strongest objections at the time were more . . . personal in nature."

"Personal."

"Yes," Cas retorts, looking harried, and then rolls his shoulders in exasperation, apparently deciding in for a penny, in for a pound. "A long time ago, my family suffered a—a split. A rift that I still grieve for to this day. It brought pain to many in our ranks. Some of my family members, they chose to align behind one of my brothers, and the rest of us were forced to align behind the other. There wasn't an option to not choose sides. For many years we fought, brother against brother, until eventually my brother who started the rebellion was . . .  ex-communicated. Punished. Disowned."

"Like you were?"

"The similarities exist," Castiel says darkly, and Dean holds up a hand in surrender. Duly noted; that was a bad thing to say.

"Uriel wanted my help," Cas continues, "to . . . It wasn't a coup. Both of my brothers were in on it. They believed in this eventuality before the rift took place. The plan was to reunite them. To start the fight again so that one could win, indisputably this time."

Dean slides a hand up his side, hoping it offers comfort. He can sympathize with bad family stuff and the way it's hard to explain. Cas stares down at him for a few seconds like he's never seen Dean before or had someone attempt to comfort him. Maybe he hasn't.

"After all the fighting. After the destruction the first rift caused, to our family, to our home, to—everything. We reigned the wrath of Heaven on Earth," Cas grinds out, like it physically hurts to tear the words free. "To do it again. To purposefully arrange for it to happen again—"

"Yeah," Dean interrupts, squeezing his hip and trying to ground Cas, keep him from sliding back to that time. "It sounds fucked up."

"I wasn't supposed to know about this plan, you understand. My family is very good at keeping secrets. That Uriel told me was an act of faith in me. Wrongly placed, evidently. I told him no. I threatened to tell the others. I found out as much as I could until . . ."  

"They kicked you out."

"They called me names," Cas whispers, chin dropping forward onto his chest. "They called me the second coming of my rebellious brother. A traitor. A failure. A devil." He shuts his eyes and swallows. "When their attempts to re-educate me and bring me to heel proved ineffective, then yes. Then they banished me."

This suddenly seems like a conversation that the cold light of sobriety would be best for. But maybe Cas didn't want that. Maybe Cas wanted Dean to be complacent and relaxed for this so that he wouldn't pick up on things like that. "What does that mean? Bring you to heel or whatever."

The flat, dead look in Cas's eyes as he chews on his bottom lip is all the answer Dean needs.

He smacks his palm against the bed. "Son of a bitch!"

"Dean."

He knows when phrases sound too specific to have a single meaning. He knows the look of someone who has suffered that specific kind of betrayal at the hands of someone meant to love you. He's felt it personally while staring into the yellow-wrong eyes of his own father.

"But you heal, right? So it wouldn't have done anything. Which means they could have just kept—" Dean nearly bites his tongue in half as his hands curl into fists. Suddenly the fact that Cas has half his skin covered with protection sigils stands in a whole new light. " _Fucking_ assholes."

"Dean." His palm curves over Dean's bicep, massaging, like Dean's the one here who needs to be comforted and calmed down.

"No, Cas. No. That's fucked up. That's not what family is, okay? Family doesn't hurt you." He needs Cas to understand that. His heart will shatter into a million fucking pieces if Cas doesn't know that. If Cas thinks that's all family does.

"Look," Dean says, pushing up into a sitting position. He braces an arm against the mattress. "A couple times when my dad was angry—or, whatever, he was drunk, or I don't know. Something would hit him in just the right way and he could get kind of rough about it. And he didn't mean to, you know. It wasn't like he meant to do anything. But it didn't matter. When he got like that, I had to make sure it was at me and not at Sammy."

Cas keeps his eyes locked on his face, watching Dean like he's the most important thing to ever exist. Dean draws strength from it. He draws in a shuddering breath.

"At first it was 'cause Sammy, I mean, he was smaller than me. But then later I started getting scared that one day Sam was going to hit Dad back. They just—they have the same goddamn _temper_. I didn't want Dad to hurt Sam and I didn't want Sammy to hurt Dad either. That's not how it's suppose to be." He holds Cas's eyes. "That's not how family's supposed to treat each other."

Cas lifts a hand to cup his cheek, the pad of his thumb soothing across Dean's cheek bone, soft and too good. He has to squeeze his eyes shut just to withstand it. "You care very much for your family. For your brother," Cas says. Dean gives a choked sound of affirmation. "I admire that about you. The depth of your love for Sam, it reminds me of what . . . what I thought my family should be. The strength of our devotion to what we believed in."

Dean opens his eyes. "Faith."

"Yes," Cas murmurs, close enough that Dean can feel the word puff against his mouth. If he nudged his chin down, he could press them together, forehead to forehead. "Your faith is in your family. In what you think it should be. My faith was once the same."

It would be so easy, so, so easy to fall in and lean forward and touch his mouth to Cas's. So he does. Cas's upper lip is soft, a little chapped, ringed with stubble that prickles the top of Dean's lip. In the weeks since their arrangement began, they haven't kissed. Not once. Call it Pretty Woman syndrome. He just never got the impression it was something Cas wanted or expected.  

Going off the dumb, dazed look on Cas's face now, he's not sure he was wrong in that assessment. A breathy, nervous chuckle escapes him. "Sorry. Was that okay?"

"I don't know," Cas says. He runs his tongue tentatively over his upper lip, like he might be able to still taste something of Dean there. "I can't judge. I've never been kissed before."

Dean stares. "What, never? But . . . " There are hundreds of ways to end that sentence. Cas is hot. Cas is kind. Cas is a clever, sassy little shit. He gives fantastic blowjobs and his voice alone can blow a bullet of arousal straight through Dean's brain. But none of that matters when Cas shakes his head. Dean's not going to be one of the idiots who missed their chance with Cas.

Tipping his head to the side, he nudges his mouth once more against Cas's, applying pressure this time, guiding Cas through the first tentative touches with the tip of his tongue. As his hesitancy melts away, Cas's hand slides from Dean's cheek to fist the hair at the back of his scalp, tugging slightly. A sudden jerk cranes Dean's head sideways, closer, and Dean laughs through a groan, going dizzy from the head rush at the way Cas teases at his cupid's bow and the corners of his mouth with the tip of his tongue. Bastard learns fast.

"Fucker," Dean growls, against the toe-curling-slow stretch of Cas's mouth when Cas smiles, and tries to get some of his own back.

It's been years since he made out with anyone. Definitely not since Cassie, and maybe even before that. They twist themselves around each other, Cas's back against the wall and his hands cupping Dean's skull, Dean's arm coiled around his waist, counting each vertebrae in Cas's spine with his fingers. It's lazy and good and even when it devolves into little more than trading soft, closed-mouth kisses, Dean finds his skin still breaking out in goose pimples.

But that's okay. The candlelight and Cas's skin pressed against his keep him warm.

 

* * *

 

"I will never knowingly hurt Sam, Dean," Cas says, sometime later. Dean has his head resting against Cas's chest, Cas absent-mindedly massaging the back of his neck. "The training, I do think it's beneficial for him. I know what it's like to hate what you are. To feel—freakish. To be isolated by that, and by what you can do. But there is strength in that too. In embracing what you are."

Dean noses against Cas's throat. Much of the restless anger from earlier is gone, wiped away by Cas's touch like Cas wiped away his hangover. But that doesn't mean his anxieties have completely evaporated. "I know. I just worry, man. What if this is making him worse? Or making him more susceptible to Yellow Eyes?"

"Humans have the wondrous ability to choose what they are," Cas says with quiet awe. "Whether Sam uses his abilities or not, he will always need to resist demonic compulsions. But Sam is very bright, and very compassionate, and his willpower is growing."

"You mean his powers are growing."

"Just because you have muscles in your arm doesn't mean you have the strength to lift a car," Cas protests. "Or the incentive to do so. Potential is not ability. That takes training, and greater mental strength means greater mental control. Control that I hope will help Sam resist any evil intentions that come his way. The better control he has over his powers, the less likely a demon will be able to wrench that control away."

Dean listens. It's not that he doesn't see Cas's point. But life doesn't work on pretty logic, in his experience. Life shakes you down and screws you over and spits you back out to do it again the next week. He turns his face into Cas's chest, feeling Cas's arms slide around his back in an embrace. "I don't know, man," he whispers. "All I know is this stuff scares the shit out of me."

"Don't be afraid, Dean," Cas says, like it can be that simple. "Have faith in Sam. I believe he's worth it."

Sam is worth everything. That's never been in question. He tilts his head up to peer at Cas. "And in you?" That's the crux of the matter. That's the burning center of the sun. "For this to work you need me to have faith in you too. To trust you."

And that's the hardest thing for Dean to do. Trusting people has never gone too well for him in the past, especially when it comes to Sam.

Cas must know that because he doesn't say anything for a long time. "Yes," he whispers eventually. "I would also like it if you had faith in me."

Dean rears up to press a hard kiss to Cas's mouth. He gets on his knees, straddling Cas's lap. "I want to fuck you."

They haven't done that before. Cas stares at him. Dean can see his Adam's apple bob, but Cas doesn't look nervous or freaked out or unwilling. He watches Dean calmly, thumb rubbing small circles against the thick jean fabric at Dean's hip bone, and then nods. Dean looks down to undo his fly, popping the button and sliding his belt free of its buckle. As he snakes the leather through the loops, he glances up at Cas. His heart thuds painfully in his chest.

"Put your wrists together," he croaks, voice hoarse. "Above your head."

Cas wants trust, but Dean needs trust in return. He needs to be able to have some say over what's happening, even in a small way. Cas seems to know the direction of Dean's intention. His eyes slip to the belt in Dean's hands. Between Dean's thighs, his hips shift. He licks his lips. "You must know that . . . that that will not hold me." His eyes catch and lock on Dean's. "You know by now that I'm stronger than . . . than the average . . . "

All those times Cas grabbed him or held him, never in a way that brought pain, but something still resolute and unbreakable, flood Dean's mind. He swallows. "Then do it because I ask you to," he whispers, voice quavering, and jerks his chin up in challenge.  

And fuck everything, Cas does. Biting back a groan, he watches Cas tuck the heels of his palms together and raise his hands above his head, elbows splayed. He winds the belt around and between Cas's wrists, binding them together, and then slips the tongue through the buckle to cinch the leather tight with a harsh snap. Cas stares at him, head up, never looking away, but he doesn't protest and he doesn't give in. He obeys because he wants to obey.

He obeys because Dean asked him to. Dean's dick twitches at that thought and spreads a patch of wetness at the crotch of his boxers.

"Fuck." He shudders, dropping his chin to his chest, and moves back to shed their remaining clothing and to grab the bottle of lube that lives next to the bed.

Except once he has Cas stretched out and naked beneath him, he changes his mind. He's never had something up there, someone back there, but that doesn't mean he's never been curious. There have been times he's wished for longer fingers, or a toy, even if the idea of buying a toy—John Winchester discovering one of his sons with a dildo—stabs a bolt of shame and panic through his chest. Cas is not a toy, but Cas is willing. Patient. Inexorably attentive as he watches Dean, arms arched back and out to the side like birds' wings, raising hard balls of muscle atop either shoulder. Cas doesn't complain about the discomfort, or about his dick leaking untouched on his stomach, swollen and tender-looking. He looks like if Dean needed it, he would lie there all night, waiting. Like some ancient, mighty beast that's consented to kneel at Dean Winchester's feet.

It's intoxicating. It's terrifying.

The first press of his finger feels like nothing so he adds another, muscles trembling as he twists to push lube into his hole. He doesn't know what he's doing but Cas's eyes hold him steady, keep him committed to his task. When he thinks he's wet enough, the stretch and clench of muscles around his fingers spurring his curiosity for what a dick will feel like there, what Cas will feel when Dean squeezes around him, he frees his fingers and lines Cas up behind him, pushing up onto his knees.

Cas's face goes flat and dazed during the first slow breach, his eyelids drooping into narrow, pleased slits. Dean braces a hand against Cas's chest, shifting into a shallow rhythm, shaking and panting at every electric hint of the head of Cas's dick brushing his prostate.

"Fuck, fuck, fuck," Dean moans, planting both palms on Cas's chest and working his hips down, down, down. His thighs burn. His lungs burn. He tosses his head back and gasps at the ceiling. He doesn't know if he's turned on or scared to death, if he's going to come or if he's going to cry. All the wires got crossed somewhere, haphazard and firing wildly. "Cas . . ."

He regrets now tying Cas's hands together. He wants to feel Cas touch him. He wants to feel Cas with him, more than just the magnetic force of Cas's gaze. Heaving for air, he drops his head down and grinds back into Cas's lap. He's going to shatter apart and he needs someone there to catch the pieces for once. "Cas—please. _Please_ , say something. Say something. Touch me."

"You're beautiful, Dean," Cas breathes, resplendent with adoration, and Dean sobs a hard sound as the belt snaps, pieces of leather falling away so Cas's arms can gather around him, cradling his shoulder blades when Cas rolls them onto his back and kisses him and kisses him until Dean melts into delirious oblivion. 


	7. Chapter 7

Sam wants to gain experience using his powers in the field, and like a misbehaving puppy with a toy, he won't give it up or stop peeing on the walls until someone acknowledges him. Suffering through Sam's exasperated sighs and determined arguments is the harder part to the support thing Dean promised to do. The weak-limbed looks of gratitude Sam shoots him when Dean asks a question about mental strain over moving objects or how clairvoyance ties to emotional states, that part he likes and has learned he can do. The issue never was that he lacked interest in Sam. Revenge of the Bitch-face, the sequel to Sam's puberty years, that's the part he struggles with.

The one advantage Dean has in his corner is that Castiel also has reservations when it comes to releasing Sam into the wild. Deigning to sit with them one night during dinner, Castiel listens as Sam reviews all the reasons he wants to go on a hunt, eyelids drooped into puffy, hypercritical slits. A joint smokes next to his temple as Castiel leans his cheek against his palm, looking both bored and deeply unimpressed. An ashtray sits in front of him, along with an orange juice glass filled almost to the top with straight whiskey.

Dean has to admit that his alcohol tolerance compares nothing to Castiel's. Elevated metabolism must go with an enhanced healing ability or something like that. He's sure Castiel would explain it to him if Dean cared to ask but he just really, really doesn't.

In contrast, both he and Sam have plates in front of them piled high with the lasagna he made earlier.

"I agree that there's a limit to how much can be achieved within a controlled environment," Castiel allows in a raspy drawl, "and from restricting ourselves to relying on objects found around the house. But you're still improving, Sam. You're still building strength. Over-taxing yourself now may cause a set back—"

"What you're saying is that you don't trust me," Sam interrupts, sullen and resolute. Dean has spent a lot of years facing down that same stubborn look of angry betrayal. It's strange now to see the full force of it weaponized against someone else, someone who is not Dean or Dad. Castiel sighs and Sam looks down to stare at his plate. "I thought you were on my side."

"I _am_ on your—there are no sides." Castiel rubs a finger over his eyebrow, like he might be getting a headache, and Dean bites back a thrilled smirk. It's nice, maybe, a little, for once to see someone else battle the conflicting desires between guilt and frustration when it comes to disappointing Sammy.  "Sam, please. I trust you are able to appreciate this. Dean only wants you to be safe. I want you to be safe. Presumably you also have a reason to invest in your own safety."

"I will be safe," Sam mutters, shoulders slumped, staring hard at his glass of water. It trembles and twitches across the table, until Castiel reaches out a hand to still it before it topples over and spills. Sam's mouth tightens in a grimace before he drops his chin to his chest and whispers, "I don't understand what I did to make you stop believing in me."

And yep, yep, there's that kicked-dog look, the corners of Sam's mouth curling down so far they probably reach his toes. Dean watches as Castiel's expression spasms, twisting up with guilt and sympathy, like the only decent thing left to do after making Sam look like that is to commit seppuku on your own blade. Helen might be the face that launched a thousand ships but Sam has her beat.

"I do believe in you, Sam," Castiel tries to soothe. "Of course I do."

And, Christ, it's like a competition across the table for who can have the biggest, saddest eyes. Dean starts to cough and wretch, drawing both sets of eyes to him and breaking the tension. "Gay," he fake-coughs into his fist. It devolves into a laugh when Sam punches him in the chest and Castiel's eyes narrow in judgment. "Oh come on!" He throws his balled-up napkin at Sam's head. "You know Cas has your back. He's just trying to make sure nothing bad happens."

"Nothing bad's going to happen, Dean. We go on hunts all the time."

Dean jabs his fork in Sam's direction. "Yeah. And bad shit happens."

"Because of the hunt, not because of—" Sam breaks off with an explosive sigh, and scrubs his fingers through his hair. "I can't just keep sitting here for months doing nothing. I'm never going to know if I can handle this unless I handle it in situations we get into. I mean, great, I can turn off the alarm clock on the other side of the room without getting out of bed, but . . . "

"That's not the most necessary skill in your daily life," Castiel finishes for him, and Sam nods.

"Exactly." Drumming his fingers on the table, Sam looks between them, nerves and frustration foreshadowing a coming proposal. "And, look, I think I might have a good case to go on. I was talking to Marleah a few weeks ago—"

"Wait, hold up. Who's Marleah?" Dean asks around a mouthful of lasagna, and Sam gives him a long-suffering look.

"Seriously? She comes here every week to see Cas. You've seen her, like, a bunch."

Castiel, the stoned traitor, nods sagely in agreement. "She has chronic eczema. It's a sensitivity to her environment more than anything so it's difficult to cure. You once offered to hold her umbrella and walk her to her car when you were fixing the porch."

Dean has no memory of this woman, her skin condition, or her umbrella. He pulls a face and Sam rolls his eyes. " _Anyway_. Marleah was telling me about her cousin who has a farm up near Elk Ridge. I guess she and her husband have been having some problems. Weird sounds. Power surges. Objects moving or going missing. They found a couple of their chickens dead but no signs of animal attack."

Sam's eyes catch on his, bright and electric with curiosity, and Dean can't help the answering pulse of adrenalin through his veins at the prospect of a case. That sounds like their kind of thing. It's been a long time since he was last able to flex some muscle. "Sounds like a poltergeist."

If Sam nodded any harder, his head would topple off his neck. "That's what I was thinking. And before, right, we needed Missouri to help us. Help us sense what it was and where. But I was thinking maybe I could do that this time. It might be good practice."

A poltergeist doesn't sound like anything too extreme. Flying lethal objects are a pain, but if Sam now has his own mojo to throw back at it, they might okay. After sitting on their asses for months, it might even be fun to get back out there with Sam. And Cas, if Cas will come along. Dean looks over at him. "What do you say, Cas? Want to help me and Sammy bag ourselves a poltergeist?"

Castiel looks wary, gaze skipping between the two of them. "I don't see how hunting a poltergeist necessitates my participation when the two of you are more than— _ow_ , ow. Dean!" Castiel hisses in reaction to Dean jamming his foot repeatedly into Castiel's shin. Then, knowing what's best for him, sighs and gives up. "Fine. If that's what you both wish. But I want it noted that I dislike leaving the house, and I dislike riding in motor vehicles, and I dislike interacting with normal people who aren't aware of my abilities. I retain the right to refuse to do any or all of that with no notice."

Tipping the chair back on its leg, Dean ropes an arm around Castiel's shoulder, ruffling his hair like an asshole just to see Castiel glare and snarl. "Aw, what, you saying me and Sammy aren't normal, Cas?"

"The evidence for such is sparse," Castiel grumbles, but he doesn't move away or push back, so Dean gets to leave his arm draped over the back of Castiel's chair for the rest of the night.

 

* * *

 

Because their lives are shitty and their luck is shittier, it turns out not to be a poltergeist.

The farm, when they reach it, looks nearly abandoned. Dusk draws long shadows between the buildings. A large wooden shed, tilting on its foundation, stands across from the rickety one storey farm house. Probably to store machinery from back in the day when this was a working farm. A chicken coop hunkers in the shadow of the shed, and in the distance decay the skeletal remains of what must have been a grand barn.

The hard-packed snow crunches beneath Dean's boots as the three of them prowl around the property. Sam keeps shouting, "Hello? Mrs. McKeon?", but no answer comes. Everything here looks either dead or dying. Whatever the crops were, they've withered into nothing but brown husks, collapsed on top of the snow. The wind howls through the open frame of the barn, a hollow, mournful wail that raises the hair on the back of Dean's neck. The shed door bangs rhythmically against its jamb, caught in it.

"Well ain't this place just a bowl full of laughs," he mutters, locking a salt round into the chamber of his shot gun with a click, just as a precaution. Castiel gives him a look, thecollar of hisold, beat up, black leather jacket popped against the chill, but doesn't disagree.

"Where is everybody?" Head twisting this way and that for signs of life, Sam marks a steady path between the shed and the house. Shadows circle around his feet, helped by the thick clouds in the sky.  He's unarmed for once, depending solely on his powers if there's trouble. "Did they just leave?"

Or were already killed, Dean doesn't say. They might be too late.

Their search of the property turns up few clues. Around the back of the house, stacked against the half-wall that holds the cellar door, corpses of chickens pile frozen in the snow. Castiel crouches down to inspect one of the carcasses, holding it aloft by the head. Hanging limp from its body, the long, scaly toes curl tightly together like a fist, rigor mortis preserved by the low temperatures. Dean feels bile curdle in the back of his throat and has to look away.

"Their necks have been broken," Castiel announces softly. "And they've been drained of blood. Exsanguinated."

"Why would a poltergeist do that?" Sam asks.

Abandoning the body, Castiel rises slowly to his feet. The blade of a knife slips from his jacket sleeve, hilt sliding securely into his palm. He flips it once over the back of his hand. "It wouldn't. This is a blood sacrifice." Somehow his eyes catch on Dean's. "We need to leave. Now."

"But the McKeons—" Sam protests.

"They're dead," Castiel snaps. In the background, the shed door rattles and bangs. The wind almost carries off his voice. "Or they left long before we arrived here. We cannot stay here, Sam. This is unholy ground. And we all can bleed."

Dean swallows at the implication in that. "You don't think we're alone," he says, just as the shed door slams closed one last time and locks itself.

All three of them turn to stare at it. No way was that the wind.

"No," Castiel murmurs, and Dean rankles at the presumptive way Castiel positions his shoulder between Dean's chest and the shed, like Dean needs protecting. "I think we're being . . . evaluated."

Sam moves towards the shed door. "Don't!" Castiel hisses, his knuckles blanching white for a second around the knife, but Sam tosses his head at him with a disappointed scowl.

"We don't back down from things just because they're dangerous, Cas. Dean and I have been hunting since we were kids. If this thing killed people, we owe it to their families to recover the bodies and to take it out. That's what we do."

"Damn straight," Dean agrees.

He doesn't know what Castiel's problem is but you don't walk off a case. Shouldering past him, he walks over to join Sam in front of the shed. With Sam standing by with a hand raised to cover him, Dean raises a boot and stomps a few times against the bolt of the door. "Winchesters," Castiel pleads from somewhere behind them but Dean ignores it. With a final kick, the door flies loose, opening to the pitch black and dusty shed.

The smell of sawdust fills his mouth, and beneath that, faint and hard to detect, the sour cloy of rotting meat. Dean swallows so he doesn't gag, scraping the stench off his tongue with his teeth. So this is where it dumped the bodies, hidden by the thick, sweet ashy scent of the sawdust.

He takes a step, then another, eyes peeled for the tell-tale slump of a corpse. The darkness is thick. Boards creak under his feet. His eyes keep snagging on the bright cracks of twilight between the boards of the walls, sharp pinpricks of light that dilute his vision.

A shadow moves in front of one, then something meaty and thick clamps over Dean's mouth. A knife blade glints in a shaft of daylight as the thing lurches him sideways. He drives the butt of his gun into the solid mass in front of him. Hot, putrid breath whooshes across his face. The thing smells like putrefied meat and rotting eggs, a tacky wetness on its fingers that can only be blood. Dean lashes out and lands a kick to the thing's knee joint. It gives way under his boot with a sickening crack, but the thing doesn't go down and doesn't let go. It shoves him forward into what feels like a shelving system, wooded shelves snapping under his weight. The knife nicks his cheek. His back slams into a wall and makes his head throb, just as the thing grabs for something overhead.

Before he can stop it, something fibrous and scratchy scrapes down his nose and over his chin. The rope yanks sharp and taut across his windpipe, ricochet pain aching deep in the back of his mouth, just as the ground peels away beneath his heels. His gun falls to the floor with a clatter as his fingers fly up to claw at his neck, body twisting. He can't breathe. Only the tips of his toes keep him on the ground, alleviate some of the pressure on his throat. Blood pounds against his temples, behind his eyes. His lungs burn. He has to fight to shove down the panic whiting out his senses.  

"Dean!" he can hear Sam shouting, frantic, but all he can do is jerk and gag for breath. "Fuck, Dean, say something!"

Sam fires the single round in Dean's gun but a chest full of buckshot doesn't seem to make a damn difference to the thing. It lumbers slowly towards Sam, its broken knee sliding and squishing unnaturally. A bald head reflects in the faint light. Its wide-set shoulders, dressed in thick coveralls and a hunting jacket, and rounded gut crowd Sam into a corner. Dean thinks he just discovered what became of Mr. McKeon. Blocked from the door and from help, Sam stretches out his arm for a pitchfork hanging on the opposite wall. The pitchfork trembles and shakes on its hangers, then falls into the hay on the floor, unmoving. The thing lets out a filthy laugh. "Stop!" Sam yells, back hitting the wall, palm still out-stretched useless in front of him. "Stop! I resist you! Stop!"

Grey fuzz bleeds through the edges of Dean's vision, his chest on fire. He thinks with irony how he's going to keep consciousness just long enough to watch that thing murder his brother. Sam's powers have left the building. And fuck Castiel for being right; fuck them for being unprepared.

A sudden swift movement flashes next to the thing's head, followed by a resounding crack. The thing stumbles back, lopsided on its broken leg. "Cas," Sam gasps, and Dean echoes an answering choke of relief.

Castiel fights like he was built to do it, compact and efficient, a blade in each hand like an extension of his arms. He lands blows against the thing with ruthless abandon, short, quick jabs that demonstrate no thought for self-defense. A knife plunges into the side of the thing's neck, spraying blood across Castiel's face. Castiel doesn't even flinch.

The thing tries to throw him, waving a hand like Dean's seen Sam do too many times, but Castiel ducks under it, crouching down on one knee and leaning his shoulders into the force. His boots slide across the length of the shed, fingertips skimming the ground, but his head stays up, eyes locked on the thing.

It yanks the knife out of its neck just as Castiel charges with a final, feral growl.

As if in slow motion, Dean watches the thing grab Castiel under the jaw and spin him, body swinging through the air like a rag doll, pinning his back to the thing's chest, before it arcs the knife down, down, down. A wet crunch, like that of a tree trunk splintering beneath an ax, vibrates through Dean's clenched teeth.

"No!" Sam roars.

Castiel rolls head first forward towards the ground, limp, empty hands curling around the knife in his ribs. His shocked gasp comes out as little more than a slushy rasp. "Cas!" The terror in Sam's voice sends a sick wash of adrenalin along Dean's nerves. With numb discombobulation, he watches as the knife in Castiel's chest goes flying free to embed into the opposite wall. Castiel curls onto his side with a groan, hands slick with blood.

The thing laughs a jarring, boisterous sound. "You think your parlor tricks impress me, kid?"

Face contorted in rage, a sudden wind whips through the shed, dancing hair around Sam's head like a crown. The air grows dense and metallic with power. Sam slices his hand through the air and the thing launches back into a wall. Its body drops a second later to the floor with a dull thud, but Sam doesn't let it lie. A clench of his fist and snap of his wrist sideways, and the thing begins to choke, feet rising off the ground by the unseen grip around its neck.

"What are you?" it gasps, clawing uselessly at its neck. For the first time, it sounds afraid.

For a crazy second Dean thinks he sees Sam's eyes glow.

Something soft taps at his foot.

Dean looks down. A bedraggled and pale Castiel lies at his feet, having dragged himself over from where he fell. He holds up a second knife outstretched at Dean, eyes pleading. Grappling for it, Dean has just enough strength to saw through the rope strangling his throat, and then he collapses onto the floor next to Castiel.

The first full, free breath hits his lungs cold and alive as snow.

Castiel paws at his shoulder. "Ex—exorcism." He sounds breathless, voice suffocated and thin, barely there. The hole in his lungs makes pink blood fizzle out the corners of his mouth. "De—mon."

Right. Nothing can kill a demon, except maybe the Colt. Eventually, Dean knows, Sam's surge of power will collapse. His fury and fear will fade once he realizes both Dean and Castiel are alive. Exorcism is their only way out.

"Sam," Dean croaks, words scraping raw against his vocal cords, and struggles onto his knees. "Exorcise it. Cas says it's a demon."

Castiel shoves Dean's hands away when they reach for his blood-soaked t-shirt. The shirt looked like something from a thrift store when Castiel got dressed this morning, pale blue and worn thin, Woody Woodpecker cackling across Castiel's broad chest. Dean knows for damn sure Castiel doesn't know Looney Tunes.

The knife impaled straight through Woody's groin.

"Cas," he pleads, trying to stop the blood, but even bleeding out and with a rib splintered into his lung, Cas is fucking stubborn.

"I—heal," Castiel gasps. "Help—Sam."

Except when Dean looks up Sam may not need help. He can see Sam shaking from here, hair plastered to his face with sweat, blood and tears leaking from his nose and eyes. But he drones the Latin strong and confident, almost vicious. The demon bellows and flails, twisting, and then throws its head back. A dense cloud of dark smoke slithers out of its mouth and through the door, escaping before Sam can finish.

The body of the farmer it was possessing falls to the ground. Dead. Sam stands alone in the middle of the shed. Victorious. Sweaty and exhausted, but unharmed. Powerful. Deadly.

For a second, Dean doesn't recognize him. For a second, Dean is almost afraid of him.  

But then he's just Sammy, sweet-faced and stumbling over to them on coltish, overgrown legs, chanting, "Oh my god, oh my god, Cas, Cas—are you all right?" Castiel gives an alarmed growl of aggravation, slapping at Sam's arms as Sam drags him bodily into his lap.

"No, sto— Winchest—. No," Castiel commands, cranky and irritable, hand closing over Sam's mouth to push away the concern.

Dean wheezes around a hysterical giggle, tension bleeding from his muscles. Sam only looks drained and Castiel is going to be fine if he can protest that petulantly, like a toddler instructed to kiss a loathed great aunt. Sam, the over-eager puppy that he is, doesn't seem to understand or register Castiel's dislike of the attention. Leaning against Sam's shoulder, contact blessed and stabilizing, Dean blows out a breath in shaky relief.

"Let's go home."

 

* * *

 

Sam falls asleep against the passenger window on the way back, his soft snores better comfort than anything else. Castiel hogs the backseat, stretched out across the length of the bench, his feet wedged between the seatback and the door behind Dean's shoulder. Dean knows he's conscious but Castiel stays eerily silent. Even with a punctured lung, Dean can't hear him breathe over the din of the road. He checks the mirror in regular intervals to reassure himself that somewhere between mile markers Castiel hasn't kicked the bucket. Every so often, the headlights of a passing semi catch on Castiel's eyes and slide across the planes of his face, pulling out the shadows around his nose and mouth. His eyes never close, gaze drilled into the toes of his boots, a deep line bisecting his brows.

Once he pulls up in front of the house, Castiel ducks out of the car and into the house under his own power. Dean focuses on dragging a half-asleep Sammy up the stairs, pulling off his boots, and rolling him under the covers. Sam mumbles and rubs against the sheets, but truthfully probably fell back asleep before his head even touched the pillow.

It isn't a Monday or a Thursday night. No expectations obligate him to go to Castiel's room tonight. Castiel was clear when he ruled no emotional ties or commitments. But, fuck it, that was six weeks ago and Castiel didn't have his chest caved in when he made that call. Winchesters don't back away from situations just because they're dangerous.

 

* * *

 

The attic looks vacant when Dean pushes the door open, music silent for once and candles unlit. A rectangle of yellow light pours from the open door of the small washroom in the corner.

Castiel stands in the center of the cramped space, leaning the small of his back against the grimy sink, and stripped down to faded jeans and vulnerable bare feet. The jeans are too big for him, cinched at the waist with the aid of a belt, but still sag low on his hips. He dabs at his chest with a washcloth, hands shaking, even though Dean knows dude has some impressive pain tolerance. His fingers are blanched white-knuckled around the rag.

It looks misleading, that sad little orange lesion smudged against Castiel's ribs. What surrounds it looks worse—a mottling of purple-black bruises that fan up his side into his armpit. Knife to the ribs is usually a dumb move; unless the aim is perfect, the blade will scrape off bone and deflect. The demon evaded that problem by just punching straight through Castiel's ribs. At least they look like they're healing, going by the bruising, even if it is ugly and extensive. That tiny cut, that's the real son of a bitch to worry about. If Castiel were anyone else, a wound like that would be fatal.

It raises the question what can kill Castiel, if anything. If even the Colt could.

Dean brushes away those thoughts. Instead he drops to his knees and shuffles forward, arms sliding around Castiel's narrow hips and cheek tucking against Castiel's stomach. Cas's free hand tangles in his hair, tugging at it, as Cas lets go a shuddering breath.

"You didn't listen to me. You both could have died."

On the plus side, he sounds better, having lost the asphyxiated wheeze from earlier. His lung must have already repaired itself.

"Yeah." There's a lot of things they could have done different, with the clarity of hindsight. "But we didn't. Sometimes that's the best you can ask for."

Cas huffs, harsh and bitter. "It was risky. More than that, it was _stupid_. I should have protected you. Both of you. I _knew_ better, I—"

"What? Fucked up?" The familiarity with that kind of self-incrimination makes his throat hurt all the more. He tightens his arms and shakes his head. "You didn't fuck up," he soothes, soft. "Me, I'm just always going to get myself in hot water. And Sammy . . . Sammy kicked major ass back there. He's not a little kid. He can handle himself."

Only as he says it does it hit him how true it is. Sammy— _Sam_ —hasn't been a kid, arguably, since he was eight years old and first learned the monsters under the bed are real. But Sam has always needed some kind of rescuing. First because Sammy was younger, and then because Sam was less experienced than him or Dad, and lately maybe more because Dean just hasn't trusted Sam to deal with stuff. Sam has Dad's temper, but Sam also has a ruthless streak of smarts Dad never had. Those two traits together make for a sweating stick of dynamite, liable to blow at any moment. But that kind of thinking maybe isn't accurate. Maybe that's just some kind of bullshit justification Dean feeds himself, a reason to believe Sam still needs him.

"Sam saved both our asses," he mumbles into Castiel's skin, eyes squeezed shut as something shifts and bursts inside him. "I'm proud of him." The sudden lack of whatever it was leaves him feeling unmoored, disoriented and disconnected.

Maybe Castiel hears something in his voice because his hand softens in Dean's hair, stroking it back from his face, and Dean leans into the touch like benediction.

"You don't need to stay, Dean," Castiel says after a long time. "It's not one of your nights."

No it's not. But the way Castiel seems fragile right now mirrors too well all the ways Dean also feels scrubbed raw and unhinged. Maybe they can hold each other up, take a little of the other's weight. That symmetry is too rare and too perfect to abandon, and Dean doesn't want to let go yet.

"It's okay," he grunts, hushed like they're sharing some illicit secret. "I don't mind."  

Digging his chin into Cas's stomach, he looks up into Cas's somber, watchful eyes. There's something dangerously addictive about that gaze. Cas claws his fingers over the top of Dean's scalp like a massage. The pressure relaxes the tension from when he smacked his head earlier in the shed.

When Cas drifts down to touch Dean's throat, Dean catches his wrist. "Don't. Save it for yourself."

A bruised windpipe and a headache aren't the worst to live with. A handful of Advil PMs and he should be good to go. He doesn't need Cas wasting his energies on him when Cas has much bigger fish to fry.

Cas juts his jaw out in outrage. "I'm not a weakling. I'm not _useless_."

Dean stares up at him. The most ridiculous thing about it is that beneath the attempt at intimidation, Cas sounds hurt. Like this entire time, Dean and Sam have expressed concern for Cas or fear for Cas because they think Cas can't do jack shit. As if everything he's done means nothing. Or wasn't enough. There's something wrong with that, more than wrong, a primal injustice that right now boils Dean's blood.

No one should believe that their only value lies in what they can do for others instead of who they are. He wants to take whoever taught Cas that and break their fucking face.

Cas startles abruptly against him as Dean presses a soft kiss to his hip bone, and then trails a line of them across Cas's belly to the scratchy suggestion of hair running beneath his navel.

"Whoever thinks that is a fucking idiot." Cas's eyebrows bunch together. Dean squeezes his hip bones and locks their eyes. "Of course you're not weak. You're not useless. And even if you were, it wouldn't mean a damn thing. Not to me and not to Sam. People fuck up, Cas. It's called being human. Don't get all emo on me, man. That ain't hot."

He swats Cas's flank playfully and watches as Cas huffs a faint laugh and his mouth struggles around a smile.

"It is . . . the . . . essence of my existence," Cas retorts, slow and stumbling for the right tone, "to endeavor to be attractive to you at all times. Heaven forfend I fail."

"Heaven forfend," Dean agrees with a grin. He plucks the stack of single gauze packets off the rim of the sink, next to the roll of medical tape, and waves them between his fingers. "So can I patch you up now?"

Cas submits with more grace than Dean thought possible, allowing Dean to wipe clean the crusted blood and plasma. He then tapes a sheet of gauze with gentle fingers over the wound. Once he's done, he presses a light kiss against it, exaggerated care to make Cas laugh. Except when he glances up, Cas is watching him with something soft and indefinable in his eyes, and it makes Dean swallow hard as his stomach flips in nauseous panic.

Fuck. He is so screwed. This is supposed to be a barter system, not a romance.

He defaults to being a dick to cover for the fact that he might be a dick but with _feelings_. "Come on, gimpy, into bed." Rising to his feet, he scoots Cas out of the washroom, ignoring Cas's scowl, tugs him out of his jeans and tucks him under the covers. Never one to stand on ceremony, and because Cas would object to ever wearing clothes if it wasn't mandated in some places by public law, he strips down to his t-shirt and boxers and crawls into bed next to Cas to sleep.

There's the perfect place behind Cas that he already knows he can slot himself into, the tops of his knees nudged against the back of Cas's thighs and the flat plane of Cas's shoulder blade snug against his cheek. Cas radiates heat like he's constantly running some high grade fever, warm and resolutely solid against Dean's front, compact muscle and bone and strength. It makes everything feel smaller, safer, like for a few hours this can be the extent of reality, Cas's steady breathing and his body heat seeping comfort into all of Dean's sore places.

The fucked up thing is, even if Cas found a cure for Sam tomorrow, even if Cas stopped paying him for sex, Dean isn't certain anymore that he would want to leave. This house, with its god-awful paint colors, has become familiar. Cas, with his weird little quirks and terrible taste in music and totally unfair prejudice for knives over guns, has become familiar.

The fucked up thing is this was suppose to be about _Sam_ , but at some point it stopped, and started to be about _Dean_.

The problem with Cassie was that she called him crazy when he told her he was a hunter. The way she looked at him then, like he'd left his marbles three states back and two towns over. How close she came to saying, "You need help, Dean," and he swears to God only stopped herself from delivering that killer blow because of the look on his face. Cas has never looked at him that way, not once. No matter how much Dean annoys him or aggravates him or confuses him. Even at the worst moments, when he suspects Cas would like to do nothing more than crack his head open like a gourd and rummage around inside for clarity or context or an off button, Cas has never looked at him with pity or sad tolerance. Like Dean is something _less than_.  

It'd be really nice, for once, to be somebody's _enough_.

If anything like that can actually exist. If Cas would ever even want that.

"Cas?" he whispers after a long time into the unknown dark. The nighttime blankets them, the moonlight painting the colored glass of the window muted pastels.

No response comes, Cas's breathing deep and calm. After a long day, it's reasonable that Cas has already fallen asleep. Dean sighs, and doesn't know if the sound is disappointment or relief. He doesn't really want Cas to hear, he tells himself. He doesn't want to know what the answer would be. 


	8. Chapter 8

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> This chapter contains depictions of sexual harassment and (non-graphic) references to sexual molestation of a child. Hover for details.

Thunder wakes Dean. A stillborn March has thawed into a wet and frigid April, early spring showers throwing sleet and fat dollops of rain against the windows. Only half-conscious, his first instinct is to slide closer to the warmth Cas seeps into the sheets and pillows. Except the other half of the bed has already gone cold, Cas's nighttime boredom luring him towards more interesting pursuits than being Dean's personal space heater. Turns out insomnia's a bitch for more than just the person suffering it.

Strong-arming a pillow over his head does little to soften the loss or quiet the pulsating thunder of the sub-woofer. Because that sound isn't the storm, not that loud and not that rhythmic.

If it were good music, Dean could maybe forgive the oversight. But Cas has a bad habit of playing gangsta rap or hip hop in the middle of the night, as though any of that makes any kind of sense. Dean will never get over the sight of watching Cas sprawled under the window, head swaying back and forth, mouthing along to lyrics like "Who's back up in this here motherfucker?" with his eyes closed. Like Cas deeply feels that kind of anger at a life lived in Compton with nothing to do but get high, have sex, or kill people.

Dude doesn't know John Wayne but he knows how to throw Westside.

Some things you don't believe even when you see them.

Dean hunches against the mattress, pulling the pillow tighter around his head, and then snaps. "Cas! For Christ sake, it's four in the morning." The music goes nowhere. "Cas, I'm sleeping. _Cas_."

Cas's voice suddenly echoes back, way too low and way too close, somewhere right above Dean's head. "Yes?"

"Jesus!" Jerking, Dean flops onto his back and looks up.

There stands Cas, looming above the mattress, puffing on a customary joint and wearing nothing but a pair of snug boxer-briefs with a black waistband. They look suspiciously like a pair Dean has, and hell, probably are. In Dean's now extensive experience, Cas doesn't own underwear.

"God." He rubs at the sleep-puffiness in his cheeks. "You're so weird."

"True," Cas admits. He takes another drag off the joint and tills his head at Dean. "I'm also bored. You sleep a lot." Cas's eyes narrow in accusation, as if there can be no greater sin.

Dean's never been able to find a baseline for Cas's sex drive. Cas is always up for it, anywhere, anytime, and has almost zero refraction time. He's generous with both his body and his affection like no one's ever taught him why not to be. Yet he rarely instigates sex, seemingly just as content with the nights they never move past kissing or the times they simply lie in bed together, Dean reading a book and Cas drifting with his head in Dean's lap. So Cas enjoys sex but what Cas _craves_ is attention.

And he isn't above using sneaky means to get it.

There's no reason that should be cute. Dean huffs. "Yeah. Normal people sleep, Cas. Not everyone's an insomniac."

"I do not have insomnia," Cas protests, with that precise, holier-than-thou tone that means he's angling for a debate. Dean groans, nowhere near awake enough for this, and the bastard smiles, delighted. "You know, I like it when you're unreasonably irritated. It's inexplicably charming."

Dean blinks. He isn't sure but he thinks that might be Castiel for: _You're cute when you're angry_. The unrealness of it startles a laugh from him. "God, you're such a dick. Get in here. I'm cold."

Cas bounces onto the bed when Dean throws back the covers, happy to drape himself on top of Dean. Unable to resist the alarmed state of Cas's hair, Dean tries to flatten the sweat-stiff tufts with his hand, noting the way Cas butts up into the touch like a cat.

"Happy now?"

"Yes," Cas declares, as decisive as giving an order for war. He nuzzles his mouth against Dean's cheek, more like a cat than a kiss, stubble catching stubble. "I don't like the nighttimes. I don't like when you're here but I can't interact with you. When I have to wait until the morning to hear your voice."

This is the hard life of being Cas: constantly betrayed by pesky human necessities like Dean's need to sleep and eat and shit.

Cas suckles at the sensitive skin under Dean's ear and then rips the touch away as a sudden thought strikes. "Do you know there's a song by a band called Aerosmith?"

"What, just the one?" Dean mocks, to be a dick.

Cas tilts his head, like he's never met a rhetorical question he didn't want to fuck with, determined to make the other person feel stupid for asking. "I suppose they may have others. But this particular song is about the singer forswearing rest lest he miss important moments relating to the subject of his song."

There are simpler ways of putting that and Dean knows Cas knows them. It takes him a few seconds to figure it out, but when it finally clicks, he throws his head back and belly-laughs so hard he thinks he might crack a rib. "Oh holy shit. Holy shit, man. This is the gayest thing I've ever done." Anticipation prickles across his scalp. "Are you talking about 'I Don't Wanna Miss a Thing'?"

Because of course Cas would think of that song. Of course Cas would find those lyrics relevant and meaningful, because who the fuck actually does that?

"I believe that may be the title, yes."

Dean's stomach does a weird flip-flop thing up, skittish and overwhelmed by the sentiment.

"So do you have a copy?" When Cas nods, he slaps Cas's rump to get him going. "Well come on. Let's hear it then."

Aerosmith is an improvement compared to the shit they're listening to now, even if the idea of Cas playing him that song is also horrifying. A strange panicked happiness fizzles beneath his skin, air bubbles of elation that buoy him up like helium. It's frightening as hell. As the first orchestral strains pour out from the speakers, Dean scrubs at his face with a groan.

"Fucking Christ."

"Don't blaspheme, Dean."

Cas stretches out on top of him once more, nudging away Dean's hands so he can kiss him, chasing Dean's mouth when the sick, giddy twist in his chest steals all of his air and leaves him shy.

Like probably everyone else in the world, he went to see Armageddon when it first came out and watched the scene where Liv Tyler and Ben Affleck play with animal crackers. If, in the privacy of his own head, he found it romantic and touching, well screw everybody else; they didn't need to know.

It's different to have it happen in person. To have it happen to him. Dean knows happiness is not the point to life, and pretty much the polar opposite of the point to his life specifically. His purpose is Sam, and after that, to hunt. If that means that sometimes Dean feels lonely or let down by those he loves, or if the primary sense-memory he carries from childhood is a bleak, terrifying emptiness, a gaping hole at the center of him that nothing could fill, that's just how it goes.

Cas seems determined to fill it, even by accident. He chuckles against Dean's cheek, warm and heavy as he whispers along with the lyrics. " _And I'm wond’ring what you're dreaming. Wond’ring if it's me you're seeing_." He leans forward to kiss Dean's eyelids, and Dean whimpers.

"Dean," Cas laughs, cool fingers against Dean's flushed cheeks. Everything in his past screams at Dean to run. It's not fair and it shouldn't be right, lying here under Cas with his throat swollen closed and letting Cas touch him soft and sweet and sing him songs about devotion. John Winchester would go ape shit.

With the force of something breaking, Dean fists a clump of Cas's hair and tumbles them sideways, sucking Cas's tongue into his mouth. If he could, he would climb inside Cas's body and live there for the rest of his life, in safety next to him.

Cas doesn't seem opposed. Strong thighs clamp high around his waist, Cas's heels digging into the muscles of his ass, grinding Dean's growing erection against the crack of his ass.

Maybe practice does make perfect, but there's something so uncomplicated about sex with Cas, stress-free and easy. Dean's never experienced it with another partner. Cas is always eager, open. Impatient and demanding. He likes his prostate nailed _now_ and _yes_ and will arch against Dean like he has no bones in his spine. Like every time might be the last time Cas gets to feel something so good. It turns sex into something more like a religious experience, orgasm a secondary concern to all the ways their bodies can be played for pleasure.

Hands down, it's the best sex Dean's ever had. The fact that Cas might also be the best everything else Dean's ever had, well. Dean's not sure what to do with those thoughts.

Hiking Cas's ankles into the air, he chuckles at the stupid picture Cas makes, doing his ridiculous bent-head bird thing between the frame of his hairy thighs, a curious smile playing over his mouth. Dean could probably tell Cas he wants to have sex with Cas standing on his head and Cas would only give one of his affable, "All right"s, and figure out a way to coordinate the balance. It's great.

Then the entire house shakes.

A line forms between Cas's brows. His head turns towards the window; Dean follows his gaze. Outside, the dim grey of pre-dawn somehow grows thicker. A spreading cloud of black billows outside the window, dense and oily like smoke, engulfing the house and blocking what's left of the moonlight.

It's fucking weird. Dean's never seen storm clouds do that. "What the hell?" he whispers.

Cas's thigh suddenly smacks into his cheek, his knee hooking around the back of Dean's neck and driving Dean forward face-first into the mattress. When he looks up, Cas is already up and moving, having used the effective maneuver to leap over Dean, and is now yanking on a pair of sweatpants. The muscles in his shoulders carry a harsh line of tension.

"Cas—"

"Stay here."

Downstairs something large shatters.

Cas pauses in the doorway, lines of his spine severe with warning. He meet Dean's eyes. "Something is wrong. Don't come out." The door slams in resolute authority behind him.

A couple stunted seconds pass, which is all Dean needs to decide he never was and never will be that person.

He snorts. "Fuck that."

Shoes seem more important than pants going into a potential crisis. The one positive thing Dad brought back from 'Nam was a priority for good footwear. Bones can break and skin can cut with or without clothing but dry socks and thick soles prevent all manner of difficulties. Jamming his feet into his boots, Dean bolts down the stairs after Cas.

 

* * *

 

He collides chest-first into Sam at the foot of the second floor landing and immediately regrets the decision to run around in just a t-shirt and boxers. Sam looks freshly-woken, hair tangled and one leg of his sweatpants still caught around the knee, bunching the red lettering to read only STANF—.

Sam catches him by the arms, expression melting in relief. "Dean?" Then his eyes jump down to Dean's bare legs, and then to Cas, shirtless, pulling apart the doorjamb of the third bedroom, and then over Dean's shoulder up the attic stairs from where both he and Cas descended.

In horror Dean watches Sam's eyebrows arch up in interest. "I couldn't find you," Sam says, a question in his voice. "You weren't in your bed."

"I, uh-h-h," Dean stutters, panicked. "I was just giving Cas a hand with—" He jerks his thumb over his shoulder and then feels his face bloat in belated alarm as the words catch up to him.

Sam's eyebrows crest his hairline.

Shit. Fuck. Motherfucker.

"Shut up," Cas orders. "Both of you." From a pocket in the wall behind the doorjamb, Cas pulls out something long and sharp, silvery. A blade, but like none Dean has ever seen before. "We're under attack. We have only a few minutes before they break through the protection charms." As if on cue, the floor shakes again, knocking Sammy into a wall and sending Dean stumbling down the last two steps.

Something deep inside the house gives a long, protesting groan, like a beam bowing under a great weight.

"I thought you had wards," Sam shouts over the noise.

Cas gives him a dirty look. "What do I care about a house?" He spreads his arms wide, and gestures with the tip of the blade towards his tattooed arms. "I warded this body. It's you two that are screwed. Or—" He magnanimously rolls the blade towards Dean. "Dean is. You, Sam, we must hope and pray, are truly immune to additional demonic influence. It will be tested _in extremis_ now."

Ignoring the inherent judgment in being singled-out—and, yes, fine, first thing on the to-do list once they get out of this mess: schedule appointment for a protection tattoo like Cas has—Dean focuses on the matter at hand. "So you're saying it's demons."

"Yes." Not even bothering to look like it takes effort to stay on his feet, Cas ignores the next shudder that lurches both Dean and Sam sideways. "The demon that escaped the McKeon's farm seems to have come for revenge. With back-up. Now get your guns. And get the salt. Move!"

Both of them scatter to their respective bedrooms. For almost a month now Dean has only used this room to store his least-used belongings. It shows. A faint layer of dust clings to the bed frame and the windowsill. The bed sits made with military neatness, untouched. Empty hangers litter the closet. Most of his clothes are stacked in piles or scattered across the floor in Cas's room.

In hindsight he should have covered his tracks better. There's no way Sam's clever little mind could mistake this.

If it were just a matter of Sam uncovering Dean's current way of making rent, Dean could maybe handle that at this point. The gay thing, sure, that'd be a pain in the ass to sit through. Sam would probably want to have some kind of deep heart-to-heart about stuff like repression and Dad and labels that don't and never will apply to Dean. But Dean will never feel guilty for doing what he needs to do in order to take care of his family. He decided a long time ago that if he ever got caught at one of those truck stops, he would never apologize. He would never show a hint of self-doubt. John Winchester taught his first-born son that you do what you have to do to ensure the survival of your family, no matter what the personal cost.

This thing with Cas is different. The empty bedroom means something a hell of a lot more than earning their keep, and doesn't hold up to the John Winchester rule book of surviving by bare bones necessity. Personal cost—that's just life. Personal _gain_ —that's betrayal in its simplest form. He can almost hear John Winchester's voice asking him who the hell he thinks he is. _I told you not to leave this room._

The problem isn't that Sam might get the wrong impression about what Dean's doing with Cas. The problem is Sam might get way too close to the _right_ impression, to the dizzying heart-clench panic Dean feels in those soft, private moments with Cas.

"Fuck. _Shit_ ," Dean swears again and jams as many salt rounds as he can into a shotgun. They're going to need more than that, so after a second of consideration, he dumps the jeans and flannels from his duffle, and leaves the leftover shells free to roll around the bottom of the bag as he swings the strap over his shoulder.

Sam meets him at the bottom of the stairs on the ground floor holding two more guns and a container of salt.

They stare at each other.

"I guess I'm going to free-hand it again," Sam offers eventually, awkward, like he has no clue what to say to Dean but wants to say something. Dean licks his lips and gives a sharp nod. In his perfect world, Sam will say nothing, _ever_ , or one of the demons will take Dean out before he has to live to see a new kind of awareness dawn in his baby brother's eyes. It's better to stick to real things that matter, like tactics. Like hunting. Sam using his powers instead of a gun makes the most sense.

He holds open his arms for the guns and Sam fumbles them over, stacking them in the crook of Dean's elbows. Juggling the collection into stability, Dean grunts, "Be careful."

Sam gives him a tiny, wan smile that doesn't reach his eyes. "Yeah. You too."

 

* * *

 

Cas commands the space when they enter the main room of the house, stationed in the center of the room and facing the wide wall of windows. Waiting. In each hand he holds a blade, including the strange silvery sword he took from the wall. A bandolier holding five more knives slants across his chest, the thick leather straps crisscrossing the dark shapes inked over his bare back. He glances over his shoulder at them just as the house gives another shuddering jolt.

"There isn't much time now. Remember, Dean, try not to engage with them directly. You're the most vulnerable."

Dean props one of the sawed-offs against his neck. "Well, jeez, ain't that a ringing endorsement."

He knows Cas doesn't mean it like that. Cas is being practical, and may not have registered that Sam put two and two together ten minutes ago. Even if Cas did, it would take a leap of intuition about human nature that Cas doesn't do to guess that Dean has a problem with it. That, demons aside, he already feels cornered and caught, hemorrhaging weakness.  

"Salt," Sam says all of a sudden. Both of them turn to watch as Sam shakes salt from the container into a wide circle near one corner of the room.

Dean scoffs. "Seriously?"

He knows he may not be as fighting-fit as Sam or Cas are when it comes to demons, but he's still John Winchester's fucking son, whatever Sam thinks he saw or now knows. Dean can still hold his own.

"What?" Sam objects. Like he's just being _sensible_. "We know demons can't cross salt lines."

"I can handle a few fucking demons, man."

Sam's eyebrows jump and pinch together, the same hurt puppy look he always gets when Dean snaps at him unfairly. He can't stand Sam looking at him like that, not now. Dean stepping out of line always changes things. It always did with Dad. Sam should look at him different now.

Cas, like always, couldn't care less. "They're coming," he growls over the rattling window panes. "Dean, get in the circle. There's too many of them. We need a sniper."

It's not fucking fair that Cas has a point, either. With Sam and Cas on the floor, Dean in the circle makes for an effective strategy. It gives him the ability to pick off any stragglers or unseen threats while Sam and Cas handle the meat of the situation. It actually makes the best use of all three of their skill sets, Cas with his knives, Sam with his powers, and Dean with his guns.

But there's something still so defeating about stepping across that protective barrier. Safe inside the circle, while Sam and Cas risk their lives, Dean feels like a toddler banished to the corner for a time out, distrusted and discarded. The sense of dismissal when Sammy and Cas place their backs to him pricks at his eyes. He clenches his jaw against the fucking _weak_ urge to cry and braces the butt of the shotgun against his shoulder. If Sam needs him to prove his worth again, he'll fucking prove it.

The windows clatter in their frames as the dark cloud pushes against it, vibrations building until the clangor saturates Dean's senses. Between one second and the next, the last protection charm snaps and the wall of windows explodes inwards. Particles of shattered glass glitter in the air. A cold, wet wind rushes in, along with several thick funnels of smoke—seven or eight at Dean's best count. Five possessed bodies follow, stumbling over the splintered wood.

How the hell you fight smoke, Dean has no clue, but he pummels two of the bodies in the chest with salt rounds in quick succession. A kid that looks like a fashionable teenager goes down in her skinny jeans and high-tops. But while salt stalls demons, it doesn't stop them.

Sam and Cas are also struggling. Sam grabs and twists the air with his fists, throwing smoke-demons out through the crater in the wall. It buys maybe five seconds before they fly right back in. Cas dodges between black clouds, blades swinging, but he might as well be a kitten batting at string for all the good it does.

A blond demon careens too close to Cas, knocked off kilter by Sam. In one fluid move, Cas grabs it by its shaggy mop of hair and plunges his silvery sword up through the demon's chin. The skull flickers beneath its skin like an x-ray, an internal electrocution, and then the demon falls dead to the floor.

Well damn. Cas's sword can kill demons.

The small victory doesn't last long. A different smoke-demon filters into the corpse's mouth, reanimating it. But it gives Dean an idea.

"Get them in bodies!" he shouts, and brings down another possessed lady with a chest full of salt. It sets Sam up to pin the demon against a wall and chant through an exorcism. Original demon banished, another one quickly pours into the abandoned body and resurrects it, and Cas takes it out with his sword.

It may not be a great system, but at least it's something.

One by one, they work as a team to pick off bodies. In quick succession they cut eight smoke-demons down to six, down to the three, down to two.

A redheaded demon, rawboned with a pencil mustache and gummy eyes, sidles closer to the salt circle every time Dean kneels to reload or switch guns. So far the weedy little bastard has managed to evade his shots.

"Mm, and why are you stuck in there, sweet pea?" it coos once in hearing range, voice sickly sweet and high.

"Fuck off," Dean grumbles, his last shell wedged between his teeth. He sifts in the bottom of the duffle for another pre-prepped one, but his fingers only scramble across empty canvas.

The demon sits so they're eye-level across the salt line, wearing a dippy half-smile. Such close observation raises the hairs on the back of Dean's neck, trembling his fingers. When he tries to shove the final round into the chamber, sweat makes his grip slip and he jams the gun instead.

"Aw," the demon simpers. "Pretty baby's scared."

"Shut the fuck up." He glances around for Sam or Cas, but both of them are busy fighting the remaining demons.

Dean's demon giggles, then blows softly at the salt line. Its eyes won't leave Dean's face.

Fuck. Fuck, fuck. Half the salt grains disperse. He's running out of time. Sam made the circle too wide for Dean to be able to head-butt the fucker with the gun. The demon exhales again, and now there is no time. Swinging his leg out, Dean kicks the bastard as hard as possible in the chest.

It catches Dean's ankle and _pulls_.

Everything happens in slow motion. His back slides against the wood floor, obliterating the salt line. The demon pins his thighs, then his wrists. It hovers above his face, its grinning, gaunt mouth reeking of sulfur, then _breathes_.

At least it feels like an exhale at first. Chilled, black smoke wafts against his cheeks, then wriggles against his lips, seeping in like a backwards sigh. It burrows thick and sour down the back of his throat. He jerks his arms and legs, trying to fight it, but his limbs won't respond. The demon has control. It sits him up without his consent. Chanting an incantation under its breath, a symbol fizzles in the skin of his left forearm, burning. As the keyhole-shaped brand finishes forming, the demon seems to sink deeper into his body, bolted there. The heavy sense of unnatural fullness leaves Dean nauseous, a fact that seems to amuse the demon.

Everything pauses as the demon rises in Dean's body. The three remaining demons, the fourth already dead on the floor between Sam and Cas, stop fighting and turn to look. Dean feels his arms extend up as the demon stretches in its new skin, twisting his hips and making his vocal cords vibrate a high, pleased moan. "Well, isn't this fun?" the demon says with his voice.

Cas steps forward to stand in front of him, blade twirling next to his leg like a compulsive, threatening reflex. He jerks his head to the side. "All right. Get out."

Calm, as if this is no worse than a child who won't return inside for an eight o'clock bedtime. Except Dean knows Cas by this point, and even with eyes that no longer belong to him, he can spot the subtle difference in Cas's posture. Cas is not someone Dean would think of as _obedient_ but when Cas is truly relaxed, he performs a beautiful apathetic pliancy, allowing the needs of others to arrange him in whatever ways are most convenient for them. He complies because it serves no purpose to waste energy refusing.

This, now, is no kind of submission. The lines of Cas's body may appear loose and lax, but in that stillness sleeps something deadly, like the tiger slunk low in the long grass biding time before it pounces.

 _I hope you scream when he guts you_ , Dean thinks at the demon, and thrills at its oily discomfort over his analysis of Cas.

"Oh," the demon sing-songs, "does this pretty piece of flesh mean something to you?" The demon drags a hand across his chest, a profane pantomime of what his body can do, has done, with Cas. "You should hear what he wants to do to you."

But Cas only looks bored by the display. Not a molecule of his existence understands the shame most people breed into sexuality. In this moment, Dean loves him for it. He can feel the demon's childish disappointment at the lack of reaction, even as it flicks his eyes across the room, alighting on a better target.

"Or maybe it's you," the demon purrs. To Sam.

At _Sammy_.

Everything in Dean revolts. He grinds his heels down in vain as the demon crosses the room to sway against Sam. It shudders with arousal at Dean's terror, exhaling a breathy moan against Sam's cheek. Sam jerks his head back as the demon digs up the sickest parts of Dean's psyche and puts them on display. If Dean had the physical permission to vomit, he would.

"You think he hasn't thought of you that way, but you're wrong," the demon teases, sliding a hand down Sam's side, forcing Dean's fingers to cup his little brother's hip in a way Dean never— _doesn't_ —want. "There once was a time you would have done whatever he asked. You think he never once was tempted to take advantage of that? Beloved _baby_ brother." Dean feels his lips brush the shell of Sam's ear. "He misses those nights with your tiny child body pressed up against his."

 _Stop!_ Dean caterwauls in the prison of his mind. It wasn't like that, those long ago nights when Sam was small and they used to curl together in the same bed like matching parentheses. Maybe he should have known better, back then. No matter how young Sammy was, Dean was always older. Maybe the comfort he felt with Sam then was selfish. Wrong. He knows he has dark, twisted parts to him—the way he can appreciate the strong line of a man's shoulders or the vicious gratification he can find in violence—but he never wanted them to come out and hurt Sam. He's never let them come out around Sammy.

The demon snickers. "He's fighting me because he knows it's true. The depths of self-denial and self-hate in him are extraordinary."

Sam's face is a mask. "I'm going to kill you," Sam vows, cold and vicious. "I'm going to rip you out of reality itself."

Curls of pleasure trickle through him, making his dick grow shamefully hard. A terrible grin stretches across his mouth. "Why don't you try?"

It's exactly what the demon wants.

A wind whips through the room as Sam unleashes his powers. Dean can feel invisible hooks pierce the demon inside him, yanking at it, tossing his body into the nearest wall. The impact jams his shoulder the wrong way in its socket, but demon doesn't seem to notice or care about the dislocation or the pain. The symbol on his arm cements it in his body. Sam rips into the demon again, sending Dean flying into the ceiling. He cracks his skull against a beam. Warm blood trickles down his temple, slick and sticky on his eyelashes. The demon cackles as Sam tries to perform an exorcism.

Like a child laughing on a carnival ride, it squeals, "You can't get me!"

Sam bellows in frustration. Outside, the sky rumbles, true thunder this time. Torrents of rain begin to pour down.

"Stop," Cas orders as Dean slides across the length of the floor into another wall. His shoulder throbs and his head hurts, the pain undimmed even though he's barred from responding to it. He just wants it to end. Cas walks over to where Dean lies, the demon offering him a wide smile as Cas bends down to grab Dean's left wrist. He twists the symbol into view. "It's a binding link. It prevents exorcism." Cas tilt his head to the side, eyes narrowing speculatively. "This is Enochian magic. Only one demon knows it." 

Dean's mouth grins wider. "She wants to meet you."


	9. Chapter 9

Dean's demon leads them to the front yard through the hole in the wall. If not for the demon powering his legs, he wouldn't be walking, or even upright. The other three demons flank Sam and Cas from the sides and behind, effectively surrounding them. But it feels more like an escort to see the queen on her throne than a threat. Standing in the slowing rain, facing the house, the demon tilts Dean's chin up.

There on the roof of the porch stands a small woman in a leather jacket and leather boots, her dark hair billowing around her shoulders in waves.

"Well, well, well. Look at that. If it isn't a lost baby bird," she drawls when Cas steps out from the shadows of the house. "No one's seen you around since you took a tumble from the nest. And here you are. In the flesh. So to speak." She arches an eyebrow over a smirk. "Why don't you flap up here and give me a real hello?"

"Meg," Cas grunts.

If Dean could, he'd whip his head around in surprise. Sam expresses his shock for him. " _Meg_? You two know each other?"

"We've—met," Cas says, diffidently, while Meg laughs.

"Oh, Clarence and I go way back," she purrs, apparently using her special nickname for Cas. "But I didn't know he was working with you boys." She hooks her thumbs into her belt loops, cocking her hip as she gives both of them a smug once-over. The rain makes Dean's legs ache with the cold. "Nice knees, Deano. You're looking a little worse for wear there. And my, my, Sammy," she admires, turning to Sam. "How you've grown since I last saw you. Exorcising demons all on your own. With those special, _special_ powers."

"What do you want?" Cas interrupts, sounding impatient but not alarmed. "You have no cause to attack my house. From what I recall, I once held favor with you."

Meg smiles; the expression looks twisted and unnatural on her round face. “That’s touching. I never pegged you as the sentimental type. Still yearning for those times in Jerusalem?”

Cas doesn't respond except for another grunt, but Dean thinks he can see Cas's shoulders twitch in discomfort. Or embarrassment. Jealousy curdles hot and sour in his chest, and his own demon laughs. Cas sends him a quick glance but his face is so blank with concentration, Dean can't read it.

That reaction seems to appease Meg, because then she sobers. "Daddy sent me."

"Yellow Eyes," Sam whispers.

"Azazel," Cas clarifies. He tilts his head up towards Meg. "What business does Azazel have here? I'm of no interest to him."

Making a show of ignoring the question, Meg plucks wet strands of hair off her neck. "You think you could've made it rain any harder, Sammy-boy?" The question makes little sense to Dean until he remembers how the storm had started suddenly, and only after his demon had challenged Sam to a fight. "Azazel isn't interested in _you_ , Clarence," Meg continues, her dark, teasing eyes locking on Sam. "Sammy, Sammy, Sammy. You made Daddy worry when you fell off the grid. He doesn’t like it when one of his special children goes missing. Yet here you are, five times as strong as you ought to be. Rumor has it you'd figured out drinking more demon blood would make you stronger. I just had to come check it out for myself. See if Adrian was lying to us."

Silence reigns after that revelation. The demon in Dean seems to be shut down, a statue of obedience in front of Meg. It's pathetic. But Dean can't take advantage. The demon still controls his body; all Dean owns are his thoughts.

It's Sam who clears his throat. "You mean—the McKeon's farm. The demon. He asked me what I was."

"Good boy!" Meg mocks. "But then you're the smart one, right, Sammy? Of course we should have known that it was Castiel all along." Her eyes flick to Cas as a wide grin blooms across her face. "Helping little Sammy achieve his true destiny. How charitable of you."

"What destiny?" Cas asks, and Meg throws her head back and laughs like it's the funniest thing she's ever heard.

"Oh, Clarence, don't play dumb. As much as it suits you. The war is coming. The armies of Hell need a leader. And Sam here—" She turns a sickly sweet smile on Sam. "Well, you might just get to skip the interview process. That was quite an impressive display you put on back there. Controlling the weather: advanced stuff, Winchester. You're sure to beat out every other candidate with the quality of the juice you've got flowing in your veins."

Dean doesn't know what the hell Meg is talking about—a war; the armies of Hell; _demon blood_ ; that Sam is too powerful?—but she only seems to expect Cas to understand. Cas raises his sword. "Azazel will not take Sam Winchester. You tell your Master that if he comes near the Winchesters, I will meet him in a slaughter. Him and his army." Cas glares at the other demons assembled on the ground. "I have nothing to fear from demons or traitors."

An unreadable expression flits across Meg's face. "Strange, that," she murmurs, and sounds almost wistful "Considering you're a traitor yourself now. When my Masters rises, my true Master, you will join him, Castiel. He'll be the only family left to you then." She jerks her head at Dean. "Let's go, boys. Drop the meat suits. Daddy will want his report. See you around, Clarence."

With one last glance at Cas, Meg disappears.  

The demons possessing the bodies stream into the sky to follow Meg, including the one who took Dean hostage. Like the survivors, Dean crumples to the ground immediately, empty and chilled, but God, free. _Free_. Possessed by only himself once more. Sam and Cas rush over to him, falling to their knees in the wet slush. The sight of Sam triggers some primal reflex, an involuntary physical cringe. Dean rolls towards Cas, unable to face Sam, and lets Cas haul his shoulders onto his lap, away from the ice and the dirt and into warm skin. He pushes his face into Cas's stomach, shivering.

Sam makes a wounded sound in his throat, gasps a frightened, "Dean?" But Cas palms a protective hand over the back of Dean's skull.

"Go check on the other survivors, Sam. Make sure they're uninjured and able to get home. I'll heal whoever needs it," Cas instructs gently. Safe with his face pressed to Cas's stomach, Dean can't see but Sam must not listen right away because Cas urges more softly, "It's all right. He'll be all right." Cas's thumb presses into the tight muscle behind his jaw, reassuring. "Do first what's necessary, please, and then see to yourself second. The rest will keep for later."

It takes a few moments for Cas to heal the bruising and mend the cut on his head. His shoulder takes longer, cracking and popping as Cas eases it back into its socket. Cas distracts him by discussing the repairs the side of the house will need, then helps him stand on shaky legs. Looping Dean’s arm around his shoulders, Cas guides him up the stairs to tuck him back into bed. Once clean and bundled in blankets, he folds into himself, catching Cas's wrist before Cas can leave him.

"Don't go."

Cas leans down and presses a sweet kiss to his forehead, right between his eyes. "I’ll be back. I need to check on Sam and the others. They might need my assistance."

Those are valid reasons, and any other time, Dean would force himself to understand. To not be selfish. But he just can't right now. He can't. His fingernails dig half-moons into Cas's skin as a needy breath hitches in his chest. "Don't go," he whispers again. He wants Cas there, warm and sturdy and wrapped around him, for the safe feeling from just a few hours ago to come back. That feeling is terrifying, but being alone right now is worse.

Cas sighs in sympathy. "I need to go downstairs, Dean. But I would bring you up breakfast. Food seems to comfort you. Would you like that?"

It's better than nothing. Dean nods and places his order. Twenty minutes later, Cas returns to the attic with a spoon, a frown, and a jar of pasta sauce flecked with crunchy pieces of uncooked rice.

"Uh. I didn't do it right," Cas surmises when he sees Dean's expression. "But it says tomato on the label, Dean."

The thought counts more than the taste. Dean shovels down two heaping spoonfuls under Cas's concerned gaze, forcing a smile and a thumbs up. Then he stretches out and burrows his face into the pillows, inhaling the scents of Cas's hair and the incense he uses to mask the smell of weed, and chases after the black escape of sleep.

 

* * *

 

The next two weeks Dean dedicates to rebuilding the wall and replacing the windows. The weather isn't the best for it, constant rain and melted snow churning the yard to mud. But the manual labor keeps his mind blank, keeps him focused on a tangible goal. It gives him an excuse at the dinner table to blame the tremble in his fingers on exhaustion. He knows Cas knows the truth. Cas is the one who shushes Dean when he wakes himself with the sounds of his own cries, paralyzed and disoriented until Cas's soft touches bring him awake properly. Something got disjointed sometime in the last six months living with Cas. Something has thawed out, a sensitivity he left behind with his childhood. It leaves him feeling shaky, off-balance, susceptible to things he once could have blown off with a bottle of whiskey and the drive to the next town, the next hunt.

He hasn't spoken to Sam.

They still exchange words. Negotiations for the bathroom in the morning. Requests to pass a beer or book when they wind up at the kitchen table together. But they don't _talk_ , not the endless running commentaries when they watch TV together or the mutual, affectionate jibes. Or about what happened that morning the Meg demon attacked. It bothers Sam. Even if Dean somehow missed the visible signs of Sam stressed, the sullen expressions and hyper-fixation on the demon lore books he pulls from Cas's library, Dean has Cas to state the obvious for him.

"Sam is distressed over your reaction to learning he has demon blood," Cas reports one afternoon while Dean's adding caulk to the new windows, sealing the seams with technical precision. His shadow falls over Dean's fingers.

"Yeah," Dean grunts, not bothering to look up. He wants to leave it at that but Cas is a stubborn fuck. He seems inured to Dean's passivity, the way words come harder for him lately. He hasn't had issues with talking since he was a kid. "Look," he tries. He's _trying_. He wants to be able to give Cas something. "That's not the problem."

What Sam having demon blood changes, Dean doesn't know. Sam having powers because Yellow Eyes corrupted Sam in his nursery before he killed Mom and Sam having powers because Yellow Eyes fed Sam demon blood before he killed Mom amount to the same thing, as far as Dean can tell.

Cas makes a frustrated sound in the back of his throat. "Dean. Dean, you must stop this. Both of you and Sam have sulked long enough. I've entertained your desires for space and for distraction, but it needs to end now. War is coming."

The Meg demon said the same thing. Dean doesn't know what to do with the rock sitting in his chest, blocking all of his words. "Yeah, Cas," he forces out around his locked jaw, tone too harsh. "Except I don't know what that _means_."

Cas's shadow spreads from the sill to cover Dean's arms and face. He has to turn his head only a fraction to connect them nose to nose. Angry blue eyes bore holes into his skull. "It means," Cas grates out, deep and ominous, "stop hiding, Dean, and come into the sitting room. We're having a meeting."

 

* * *

 

When Dean gets there, Sam has already claimed one end of the couch. His lanky frame contorts into a bony ball, all elbows and pointy knees under black track pants. His head bows over his phone, both thumbs punching away at the Blackberry's keyboard. A big toe pokes through a hole in his left sock, and Dean feels the faint pulse to offer to darn it. Cas has a thing for the arm chair so Dean drops down onto the other end of the couch, keeping the seat cushion in the middle as a barrier between him and Sam. He should say something. Tell Sam he doesn't care about the demon blood. But all he winds up doing is staring at his hands.

Cas comes in, and his mere presence eases some of the metal bands constricting Dean's chest. Which is stupid. Dean's not a baby, and Cas isn't a security blanket, but he just feels better when Cas is there. When he knows he can reach out to grab Cas's sleeve or brush their fingers together. He used to want to reach for Sam, but unlike since Sam hit puberty, Cas usually reaches back, tangling their fingers together or smudging a dry kiss against Dean's ear. It feels good. It feels like something finally slotting into place.

Cas snags Sam's phone out of his hands on the way to his chair. Sam makes a noise of protest, but Cas drops the Blackberry into the pocket of his robe anyway. "No more distractions," he says, sliding his ankles under his thighs as he sits down. "We need to focus. Both of you are acting like the tidings of war don't affect you."

"Above our pay grade," Dean mumbles, while Sam snorts with aggressive derision.

"Just because Azazel wants me to lead some army doesn't mean I'm going to," Sam fumes, already all wound up with nowhere to go. Dean glances at him but Sam only has eyes to glare at Cas. "What happened to choice, Cas? What happened to _I_ decide what's best for me?"

Cas sits with his wrists hanging limp off the cliffs of his kneecaps, looking unperturbed by the anger directed at him. "I don't think either of you two realize the scope of this threat. Not since Hell's founding has an army been raised. To do so now only means one thing."

A tiny thread of curiosity tugs at Dean. "What?"

"The Apocalypse."

Despite himself, a laugh burst out from the tightness in Dean's chest. "Yeah. Okay. Sure. Go big or go home, right?"

Cas scowls at him. "You don't believe me." Dean raises his eyebrows in place of verbal confirmation. Cas's jaw juts out farther in defiance. "I'm not exaggerating, Dean. I'm not scaremongering. The end of the world has been prophesied for millennia across the entirety of Western civilization. 'And another sign appeared,'" Cas quotes. "'Behold! the great dragon: with seven heads wearing seven crowns; his tail will sweep down a third of the stars from Heaven. And the dragon will stand before the woman about to give birth, so that when she bears her son he might devour it. Now war will arise in Heaven and across the Earth, Michael and his angels fighting against the dragon. And the dragon and his angels fighting back.'"

It's totally the wrong thing to focus on, but there's something surprisingly hot about listening to Cas proclaim Bible passages or whatever, his raspy voice all growly and booming. Dean can't stop his appreciative smirk, or the twist of affection he feels at the sight of Cas's eyebrows pinching together in exasperated confusion.

"You think that's me," Sam says, a quiver in the back of his voice. "The son born for the dragon to devour. You think Azazel marked me for Lucifer to . . . to eat me?" Sam stumbles, and Cas's mouth twists in dissatisfaction.

"No. Obviously it's not entirely literal. John was doing a lot of hallucinogens when he wrote Revelations," Cas says, shaking his head as though he was there and witnessed that mess firsthand. "Some things aren't going to be accurate. But ultimately—yes. I believe Azazel marked you as a child, for something to do with Lucifer. For a way to bring forth the Apocalypse."

Dean stares at Cas. Sam stares at Cas. Cas looks between them, and then grouches, "What? It's more plausible than you'd think. Meg was right, Sam. You are too powerful. You shouldn't have responded to . . . our training. This way. This well." There's this odd emphasis on _training_. "It concerns me," Cas admits more quietly, "how powerful you have become."

Judging by Cas's stern expression and the hard set to Sam's jaw as they stare at each other, it looks like trouble erupted in paradise at some point in the past two weeks. Dean's not certain over what but he doubts he's going to get an explanation out of either of them right now.

"Then what?" he croaks, reaching out to squeeze Sam's shoulder, trying to leech out some of the anger clenched there. "What do we do about this?"

No one answers him for a second, but then Cas breaks the stare-off. "I propose we kill Azazel. We stop him from raising an army. We stop him from starting the Apocalypse."

"You mean me," Sam interrupts, low and hard. "You need to stop me from starting it." The muscle in Cas's cheek twinges as he stares off to the side. His Adam's apple bobs, but he doesn't open his mouth to object.

This is just completely fucked up. As much as Dean first struggled to accept Sam's friendship with Cas, the animosity rolling off Sam now is just _wrong_. "Hey," he tries, massaging Sam's shoulder, trying to shake him out of it. "We'll fix it. That's what we do. And Cas is going to help."

Thank God at least Cas nods. Sam forces out a strained sigh, but also seems to relent, relaxing a little under Dean's hand.

So okay. They're all together. They're still a team. Dean swallows. "All right. So what do we do? How do we kill him? How do we find him?" They've been trying to kill Yellow Eyes for almost twenty-five years and haven't found a way yet. They need a fucking plan for once.

"There are ways," Cas speaks up after a second, "to annihilate a demon permanently. My blade, for instance, will kill anything in existence, and a few things that now are only myth."

The Colt is another option, but Sam opens his mouth before Dean can suggest it. "I was reading about these, uhm, these demon-killing knives the Kurds made. That's not what you have, is it?"

"No," Cas sighs. The tension between them is still there but it seems to be dissipating. "Mine is far more rare. And valuable. And it is linked to me—personally. It will burn anyone not equipped to handle it." Sam sucks in a sharp breath of understanding. Cas nods slowly. "But I believe you would be able to wield it, Sam. If necessary."

Sam presses his lips together as he falls back against the seatback, looking of all things like he's going to start crying. "You'd—you'd trust me with that? Cas, with—your _sword_?"

And, sure, okay. Cas's sword does seem pretty bad-ass, what with the demon-killing potential, but Dean doesn't think it's something to cry over. His opinion is apparently wrong, though, because Cas's expression is also going soft and earnest. "Of course, Sam. None of this has anything to do with my level of faith in you."

Just like that, they're back to having broments with each other. Dean clears his throat. "Okay, so we have a way to kill him. How do we find him?"

"I believe I may have a plan," Cas says. One corner of his mouth twitches in smug satisfaction, which tells Dean that Cas has spent his last two weeks mulling over this problem. He only dragged Dean and Sam out of their respective holding patterns once he decided he'd discovered a suitable solution.

Dean crosses his arms over his chest and leans back into the couch. "Okay, so let's hear it, Miss Marple."

Cas shoots him a peevish look, then licks his lips and begins. "Azazel may be considered a demon now, but he began his existence as an angel. He was one of those who pledged loyalty to Lucifer, fought for him, and so followed him upon his Fall into Hell. There his corruption deepened until he emerged as one of the first demons. One of Lucifer's generals." Cas tells the story like it is a story, a historical fable possessing due gravitas. Sam looks interested, but Dean can't help but snort. Cas pauses to glare at him. "What."

"Just, no. Angels aren't real."

Sam also turns on him, his mouth falling open. "Dean, seriously? _Still_?"

He doesn't know what _still?_ means. Not since day one has he believed in angels, or Heaven, or any of that bullshit, and nothing in recent events has given him cause to start. "Yeah, Sam, _still_. Look, we got ghosts, vampires, werewolves. Demons. Some war coming, apparently. If angels are real, where the hell are they? Why haven't they taken care of this already?"

"Perhaps because that is not their job." Cas leans forward in the chair, chin jutted out. "Angels are soldiers of God. They were created as His First Children, before He made Man for them to be subservient to. That is why Lucifer Fell, in rebellion that he should love or serve anything other than God. The concerns of humanity are not necessarily aligned with those felt in Heaven. We are not natural allies."

Cas snapping at him rubs raw at the sore place inside him, making it ache. He grinds a hand into his chest. "Jeez, okay. Sorry."

It seems like it's going to take more than that to get Cas to unclench. "If you accept the existence of demons, Dean, then you should accept the existence of angels. There is more lore on angels than any other beings except perhaps for humanity itself." Cas stands up and walks over to one of the bookcases lining the walls. He selects a dark book Dean has seen Sam with a time or two. It has a knurly, textured front board with gold lettering, and gold leaf edging on the pages. Cas drops the thing in Dean's lap. "That is the most complete codex on angels, with the name of nearly every angel who has at one point walked the Earth," he says, then exchanges a pointed look with Sam. "Perhaps you'll find it interesting reading."

Dean is pretty sure this counts as literally being schooled by Cas. The tips of his ears go hot as he slouches down against the cushions. "Yeah. Thanks."

Sam's already moving ahead. "You were you saying before? About finding Azazel."

Cas settles back into his chair, bracing himself up by his arms so he can fold his legs once more. "Yes. Thank you, Sam. As Azazel once was an angel, I think it should be possible to extrapolate an angelic summoning spell into a locator spell.  Because they're formed through corruption, there is no way to summon a specific demon. A general request can be made but _forcing_ a specific demon to appear is nearly impossible. Angels, due to their nature, are different. Every angel has a True Name and a Call sigil that corresponds to it. With some adjustment, it should be possible, instead of completing the summons, to simply locate where in space-time Azazel's True Name registers."

"And he would still have that?" Sam asks. "A True Name. Despite being a demon now."

"It's complicated, but yes. An angel's grace—perhaps it's easiest for you to think of as a musical chord. It is a steady set of frequencies, unchanging, harmonized. Human souls are more discordant, and demons are the most chaotic of all. A—keysmash, if you will, instead of a chord. It would be practically impossible to lock a Call sigil onto specific demonic frequencies due to demonization being such a personal process. Nothing is corrupted by the same forces or in the same exact ways as something else. The results are too unpredictable. Though Azazel has had his grace corrupted, his base frequencies—the original chord—will always remain. He's simply more dissonant now. But his Call sigil should still work."

A headache has started to bloom over Dean's right eye. "Right, so where do we get that from? A Call sigil."

Cas nods to the book in Dean's lap. "It should be somewhere in that book, or in one of the others. True Names are not well known, for obvious reasons, but my library should be one of the most, if not the most, extensive collections of angel lore on the continent. We also need to collect ingredients for the spell itself, and Sam's participation is mandatory."

Sam sits forward, linking his fingers together between his legs. "What do I need to do?"

"The spell will pinpoint Azazel's whereabouts," Cas says, "but I have no current ability to interface with it. We need you to be the receptor, to use your clairvoyance to read the information the spell provides. This should also give us a way to observe Azazel first, in order to find the most vulnerable moment in which to strike."

 

* * *

 

For the next few days, it's research and supply time. There is, as Cas said, far more information on angels than Dean thought there'd be. At first, curiosity gets the best of him and he spends some time just flipping through random books, reading about the difference between seraphim and cherubim, the Thrones and the Powers. The book Cas gave him turns out to function something like an encyclopedia. Arranged alphabetically, it lists however much information is known about a specific angel, including their patron causes, which sphere they belong or belonged to in the Host, and, for the better known ones, their Call sigil. The different sigils on each page remind Dean of Cas's tattoos; it's the same kind of strange, half-curved, half-angled script. A for Azazel is simple to find, though his page depicts several symbols that name him. A large circular symbol, divided into quadrants, dominates an entire page. Dean suspects that's the Call sigil. He takes care copying it first into a notebook, concentrating to get each intricate flick and squiggle correct, and then sets up with a compass and a thick piece of chalk in the main room. It's the only room in the house with enough free floor space to transfer the sigil and the spell's binding circle onto the hardwood.

Sam buzzes in and out of the house, building their supply pile. The first ingredients are simple herbs, easy to find, but Cas's list includes rarer things as well, special oils that need to be consecrated in their own rituals first. Cas agrees to oversee preparing the oils in the third bedroom.

Dean sets up a floor mat just inside the door to keep Sam's muddy shoes from traipsing all over his chalk, but he still has to start over on the northeast quadrant twice. The stupid Call sigil has more hooks and crooks than Arabic lettering, and they smudge like a bitch. If Dean had been smart, he would have started drawing in the center and worked his way out. But he wasn't, and now the traffic lines in the house are paying the price.

Two booted feet come to stop just outside his binding circle, and Dean viciously prods the offenders in the toes to get them away from his chalk.

"Move it or lose it, Big Foot. I'm working here."

Sam lowers himself to the floor to sit, setting aside a mason jar of something thick and dark before he goes to remove his boots as requested. "You know it'd be easier if you'd started in the center," he points out, like after two days of drawing, now is the time to offer suggestions.

"Shut it. No one asked for your advice." Dean flicks a finger towards the jar. "And your gifts could use a some work too. You know blood's not my color."

"I told the butcher we were making _fritada_ to get the goat's blood," Sam says, and at Dean's weird look, explains, "It's a blood-based soup. Traditionally from Guam. Lots of cultures have blood soups, Dean."

Yeah, but that doesn't make it any less weird. "Sure. Just your traditional Sunday night dinner." But that should be the last ingredient they needed to do the spell. The only thing left to do is finish the Call sigil and pick a sunrise to start chanting. "We all set to go now?"

"Basically, yeah." Sam nods, and then curves his fingers over his ears, tucking his hair back. It's gotten long in the last few months. Maybe Dean should try to pin Sam down after this is done and give him a haircut. "Hey, uhm. Can I talk to you about something?" Sam asks, sounding tense, and that plus the fidgeting makes Dean put his chalk down.

He drops back on his ass on a clear patch of floor, dusting chalk from his hands, and gives Sam his full attention. "What's up?"

Sam rubs a thumb against his knee, pensive and refusing to meet Dean's eyes. "What if we don't use the spell to trace Azazel?"

"What?" Dean can't figure out any reason to doubt the plan. Hell, most of the time they don't have a plan and they still make it through okay. Actually plotting things out has got to at least triple their chances for success. "Cas seems pretty sure about it. It'll be fine."

Sam's face compresses, disgruntled and unhappy. "No. Not—what if we can't. I meant what if we don't? What if we use the spell in its original version and summon him? And, I don't know, build a cage or something. Trap him."

Trap Yellow Eyes. The words bounce off the interior walls of Dean's skull, zigzagging in search for a place to sink in and not finding one. He needs a moment before he says, "You want to summon Yellow Eyes. Here. The guy that killed Dad. The guy that killed Mom. And _Jess_. Who wants make you Sergeant Major General of his Army and maybe start the end of the world?"

None of that makes any sense. Except to Sam, apparently, it does.

"That's the point, Dean," Sam almost whines. His fingers dig into his jeans, like it's taking every effort not to reach up and start pulling out his hair. Like Dean's purposefully being obtuse and should be able to catch the ball Sam's throwing him from far left field. "I don't have to say yes. I'm not going to say yes," Sam insists. "But—yeah. End of the world. You heard what Cas said. What if stopping Azazel isn't enough? What if it is stopping Lucifer? If my powers come from Azazel, then we should _use_ him. His blood can make me stronger."

That is such tidy, perfect logic. That is everything that Dean admires in Sam, and sometimes envies in Sam, that ability to fit two and two together in an intuitive leap Dean could never make. It's the same smarts Dean felt proud of when Sam was acing spelling tests in elementary school and the first time Dean talked Dad into letting Sam help on a hunt, the way Sam figured out which bones they should burn sitting forty miles away at the library's payphone. Sammy is just so smart. But Sammy is also just so terribly fucking _wrong_.

Dean pushes to his feet. "No."

"Dean."

Sam rises to trail after him, dogging his path around the room. Their socked feet foul the chalk lines, blurring the tiny serifs on the symbols.

"No," Dean says again, pacing around, unsure if he's trying to avoid Sam or if something this big just means he's got to _move_. Running away isn't going to fix this. He turns on the spot to face Sam head-on. "Why would you think I'd ever sign on to something like this? We've been trying to kill that douchebag our whole lives, man. It's everything."

He hunches up his shoulders, trying to find a better way to convince Sam, but that's what it still comes down to. Killing Yellow Eyes is literally everything. It's the reason that kept them on the road, that kept Dad away. It's the reason Sammy never got to stay in one of the schools he liked and why Dean never got to have a high school sweetheart. Dad always promised once they got the thing that killed Mom they could stop. Sam could go to law school and Dean could get a house. Maybe a real job. A family of his own. Now they've got the house and there's got to be some kind of school nearby Sam would like. Even if it meant losing Sam up to Chicago on weekdays, he could live with that. They're almost _done_.

Dean stares into Sam's earnest, pained face and can't figure out why Sam doesn't want to be done yet.

"I could help people," Sam asserts. "I'd be strong enough. I could ward the Impala. I could ward this whole house. This whole town. Just by being here. I could power the whole thing. Maybe even other towns too, Dean. Maybe the whole state!" Sam cries, fervent and fanatical, pleading. "Who knows how strong I could get between his blood and Cas's?"

The world stops. "What?"

Sam doesn't even have the decency to look guilty. His mouth slants down, and he stares at Dean with something that looks a hell of lot like pity.

Dean has to force the words to get them out. "Cas—Cas's blood. Cas has been giving you blood?"

"Yeah."

"Since when?"

"Since always!" Sam lets out an explosive sigh, hands finally going to his hair, combing it back from his face. "Since we got here, Dean. We found some research, a diary of this priest. It had this ritual in it for how to cure demons using purified blood, so Cas thought . . . Cas thought his blood would work even better. But it didn't." Sam pulls a helpless facial shrug. "It didn't do anything. It didn't cure anything."

"But it did make you stronger."

And fuck. Fuck. Cas said to him a long time ago that just because you have muscles doesn't mean you can lift a car. But it doesn't matter how many fucking hours you put in at the gym; you're never going to get the strength to throw a car around from lifting weights alone. You're always going to need some kind of extra boost. Which Dean should have known. Right from the goddamn start, that little display in the sitting room, Sam's powers creeped him the fuck out.

"Why is Cas's blood so special, Sam?" He knows the answer. But he needs Sam to fucking say it. "Why is Cas's blood special?"

Sam retreats from Dean's advances, socked feet slipping on the hardwood as Dean crowds him into a corner. But Sam's head stays up, his jaw locking into place, obstinate and unyielding. "Dean, seriously," he accuses. "How do you not know?"

Because he's stupid. Because he's weak and pathetic, and even now he can still picture himself climbing into bed tonight with Cas. Bitching to him about how drawing the sigil is giving him carpal tunnel just to make Cas to get that cute little line between his brows and offer to give Dean a hand massage. The way he'd want to have sex good and slow, because it's been a few days since they had the time and he fucking loves the look on Cas's face after they've drawn it out for hours, how Cas goes stupefied, lax and happy, crinkling up his nose when he smiles. Because Dean still can't justify the gap between what he wants to be real and what is real.

"So tell me." He grabs handfuls of Sam's t-shirt when Sam doesn't immediately respond. "Tell me. Say it!"

Just break his fucking heart already, goddammit, Sam. Tell him Cas is a demon.

"Castiel is an angel, Dean," Sam says quietly, all the pity in the world in his eyes. "Cas has been giving me angel blood."


	10. Chapter 10

Cas is in the sitting room with a client. Dean doesn't spare the woman or her family on the couch more than a fleeting glance as he storms up next to the arm chair and seizes Cas by the bicep. Cas doesn't budge; it feels like gripping stone. Which, shit, but Dean's known that for months. Countless times Cas has gone weirdly stiff, dense like Dean's trying to manipulate something ten times Cas's size. Like Cas just forgets or something.

And that's exactly what it is, isn't it? Cas forgets to pretend to be human when Dean isn't touching him.

Adrenalin drives spikes into his heart, binding it with barbed wire. "Get up," he barks, and doesn't do a damn thing to reign in his temper in front of the guests. "We need to talk. Now." The woman and her parents huddle closer together but Cas just fixes him with an implacably blank, blue stare.

He leaves without trying to drag Cas with him. There isn't a point, and standing still any longer feels like it might kill him. Sam is still leaning against the wall in the main room when Dean returns. The half-finished chalk sigil stretches across the floor, marked up and scuffed. He paces the circumference of the binding circle, listening to muffled voices drift from the sitting room, excuses for "need a moment" and "if you return later, I promise". The side door to the house opens and shuts, and then Cas appears from the mouth of the hallway, eyebrows already low with disgruntled impatience at the interruption.

Dean has no intention to waste any more of his time. He flings at hand  out at Sam. "All right. Tell him what you just told me."

"Jesus, Dean," Sam huffs, pushing off the wall with a smack. "Will you stop? I thought you knew. I thought you—how do you _not know_ , Dean?" he yells, and Dean almost snarls back at him. Sam jabs a finger at Cas. "Haven't you noticed how Cas doesn't need to eat? Or sleep? Or that he'll forget to breathe, for fuck's sake, when he's not concentrating on it!"

The truth pricks more pins beneath Dean's skin. Because of course he fucking noticed. He noticed and just never questioned anything beyond his own stupid first assumptions. Cas will drink coffee or eat bites of bacon, and the rest of his nutritional detriment Dean brushed off as Cas having a high metabolism or some shit. He blamed Cas's sleep patterns on fucking insomnia. He assumed Cas needed oxygen because living things die without oxygen.

"It's obvious," Sam continues. "Especially when you've been fucking sleeping with him." His eyebrows jerk up in confused accusation, bolting Dean to the floor. "How long has that been going on, huh? It's not like you were ever going to tell me about it. Right? Or even that you're, what, gay?"

Dean wants to hit something. He want to claw that look right off Sam's face, the way he looks almost hurt beneath everything. Like Sam has any right to play that card right now. "Shut up, Sam," Dean hisses. "You don’t know what the fuck you’re talking about."

"I'm not—" Sam starts when Cas interrupts.

"Do I need to be here for this?" he asks, sounding, of all things, _bored_.

Dean rounds on him at the same time Sam throws his hands up in disbelief. "Yes," they both growl in unison.

Cas has no reaction. He stands in the doorway as still as a statue, arms hanging limp at his sides. It makes him look cold, otherworldly all of a sudden, and Dean can't fucking stand it. Looming into Cas's personal space, he takes advantage of their minuscule height difference to stare down into Cas's too familiar, too blank face. He knows that face, the growth pattern to Cas's stubble where the hair grows against the grain, and the patch of dried skin on his lower lip. The way Cas worries at it with his teeth when he's distracted. The way it feels beneath Dean's mouth before he can soothe it with the tip of his tongue.

The memory of trying to do this once before comes back unbidden. Lying together across Cas's bed, how the candlelight made Cas look radiant and relaxed for the first time, the way everything in that moment felt new and exciting, the dawn to some rare, perfect potential. Their very first night together, and Dean kept asking, asking: _what are you? what are you? what are you doing with Sammy?_

He just didn't notice, did he, how Cas dodged his questions like a pro.

Swallowing, he tries to keep his voice steady. Not accusation, just a flat out request for information. "Tell me," he says, staring into those eyes. Godammit, those eyes. A breath catches in his chest, sharp and aching. His voice starts to tremble despite his best efforts. "Tell me what you are."

Cas blinks once. It might as well be a full-bodied flinch given how still he's holding himself. "I'm Castiel."

"No." His knuckles throb, nails gouging marks into the meat of his palms. "God, Cas, just—tell me what you are! Tell me it's not true," he pleads, desperate and cleaving to the fading vestiges of hope. 

Cas blinks again and doesn't answer. Blinks a second time. A third. Like there's nothing behind those eyes. Nothing alive in there, just an innocent, vacant space ready to be filled with whatever Dean wants to hear. Like Cas is just waiting for the right excuses to come to him. That's not right. That's not _Cas_. Cas would never lie to him like this. But maybe Castiel the angel would. Maybe Dean's just now recognizing him for the first time.

He heaves in a deep breath, betrayal making his eyes burn, about ready to give up waiting for an answer, when Cas finally, finally drops his eyes and turns the side of his face to Dean.

"I'm your friend, Dean," Cas says softly. "But I, I used to be an angel. Before I Fell and possessed this body."

The last thing holding together in his chest fractures and falls apart. Air shudders out of him, along with what was left of his hope.  He stumbles a step back from Cas. "You're possessing some poor bastard?"

"Jimmy's dead," Castiel snaps, and Jesus. Jesus. Jimmy fucking Novak. "After the car crash. I released his soul into Heaven. I didn't want him to suffer. I had no choice, Dean!"

Castiel jerks his hands up into the air, like he wants to reach out, but Dean shies away, ducking his head as if Cas might hit him instead of hug him. Something in Cas's expression ruptures.

"No. Please. I won't harm you, Dean," he whispers, like that hasn't already happened. "Please believe me. I can explain. I was Falling. Angels cannot walk the Earth in our True Form. Even the little Grace I still possess, it would burn whole forests. I needed a vessel, immediately, and he was the only suitable one of my bloodline. I didn't mean to crash his car. I didn't mean to _hurt_ him."

And there, there it is, that guileless look that usually has Dean falling to his knees and apologizing. Doing exactly what Cas—Castiel—wants. "He gave me his consent, Dean," Castiel avows. "I needed his consent to take him. He was a devout man." Like that makes a damned bit of difference. In Dean's experience, people don't usually agree to being killed unless the alternative is worse.

He turns away from Castiel, only to get Sam standing just behind him, scraping a toe against the wood and looking uncomfortable. Uncomfortable but not _broken_. Not like his whole world is crumbling apart. Dean can't stand the sight either of them right now. Knuckles pressing to his mouth, he waves a hand behind him as he flees for the stairs, signaling them to stay back, stay away.

Just leave him the fuck alone.

 

* * *

 

Halfway up the stairs to the attic, he realizes that the attic is technically Cas's room. Dean's room, the one he hasn't slept in since January, that's back downstairs. Waiting for him with its dust and its emptiness. The room above, soft with candlelight, rich with incense and the jeweled shadows from the stained glass window, that doesn't belong to him. It never belonged to him.

"Fuck," Dean bleats, and slams his hand into the wall above the railing. The plaster cracks. Caught for a moment over which way he should turn, he bolts up the rest of the stairs and throws the lock on the attic door.

 

* * *

 

Cas doesn't keep any alcohol up here. He smokes more than he drinks, and the bulk of his bottles live in the kitchen, communal and easy to access. But Cas has other stuff, the clatter of pills in tins at the bottom of a backpack. Dean finds the bag slumped on the floor next to the stereo system, and pops open the red Altoids tin. White oblong pills jounce along the bottom, no label to identify them. But years of stitching his own cuts and splinting his own bones mean Dean knows Oxy when he sees it.

The door bangs so hard suddenly that it seems like it might come off its hinges. Dean jumps. "Dean!" Castiel's voice booms through the wood. The doorknob rattles. "Dean, open up!"

But no. No. He doesn't want to talk to Cas right now. To Castiel. He backs up until his calves collide with the edge of the mattress. The Altoids tin clutched between his fingers rattles as he struggles to keep his balance.

"Dean! Dean, please," Castiel calls, the sound of an open palm slapping the door. "Please let me in."

But that's the problem. Dean did. He let Cas in, into the place usually reserved for Mom and Dad and Sammy, and look where it got him. Shaking his head, he covers his face with his hands. "Just go away!" he shouts, and then devolves into mumbling, "Just go away. Go away, Cas. Leave me alone." The name cracks in his throat, lodging against the lump of a sob he can't let out.

A soft thump comes from behind the door, like Castiel's dropped his head against the wood, pressed there and waiting. "Please, Dean," Castiel begs, and Dean hates how he can hear the reflection of his own heart breaking in Cas's voice. "Please. Just let me see you. Let me explain."

Except there's nothing to explain. No matter how much Dean wants it, there's not a damn thing Cas can say to make this better. To make everything right. Castiel is always going to be the name of the angel who fed his blood to Sammy and then lied about it.

Suddenly it's too much. The hurt embedded in Dean's chest flares into anger, easier to control and easier to wield.

He hurls the Altoids tin as hard as he can at the door. It bursts open on impact, pills scattering. "You lied to me! What's there to explain about that, Cas? How many times did I ask you? How many times did I fucking _beg_ you to tell me what you were doing with Sam? And instead you just kept feeding me bullshit!" He looks around for something else to throw and finds a ceramic ashtray near the bed.  It shatters against the wall next to the door.

"Dean, please," Cas implores, sounding so quiet in the after-echo. "It wasn't bullshit. Everything I said to you I meant. Sam is the one who chose to lie to you. I intended to tell you about the transfusions when we first demonstrated Sam's improved ability. It was Sam who elected to keep it from you. I was following his lead."

"Bullshit!" Winding his arm back like a baseball pitcher, he whips one of Cas's stupid tiny Buddha statues. It dents the door on impact but doesn't break like the rest, bouncing off the wood and rolling to the floor. Cheap piece of shit. "You don't get to blame this on Sam. Sam isn't the one who knows about this stuff."  

Who's a fucking angel, apparently.

A loud thud comes from the other side of the door, like a fist hitting it. "Dean! Stop breaking my things. Your brother is neither a child nor an idiot," Cas shouts, sounding like he's giving a fucking lecture. Arrogant asshole. "You cannot keep excusing whatever of his behavior you disagree with by deflecting the blame onto someone else!"

Dean stalks towards the door. He can't see Castiel and he won't unlock the door to let them be face to face, but he wants his words to be good and clear. "Don't you dare try to tell me what I can and can't do with my own brother! I all but raised that kid. It's my job is to protect him. That's my job!"

And that's all he is. At eight years old, he learned his lesson. About what life is, about what he is, about all he can expect to be. He stayed in that room like John Winchester ordered him to and he's never once left it. Until now. Until Cas. None of this would have happened if Dean had kept his priorities straight.

The realization drains the righteous anger. It sucks out his energy, his strength, the very marrow in his bones and leaves him weak-kneed. Sliding down the wall next to the door, his legs give out and sprawl out in front of him. His eyes itch. His lungs burn. The air hitches one-two-three like jumping rungs on a ladder when he tries to breathe in. "It's my job. And right now," he chokes, "the thing Sam needs protection from is you."

He wanted to crawl into that bed right across from him with Cas tonight. He wanted to kiss Cas long and deep, and bury himself inside Cas's body, safe the whole time with the knowledge that Cas was watching him, watching over him, those blue eyes like a touchstone. Never, ever will he get to feel like that again.

"No. Oh, Dean." Cas's gentle voice seems to hover right next to his ear, as though Cas is sitting on the floor as well, just behind him, both close enough to touch and as far away as the moon. "I won't hurt your brother, Dean. I won't hurt you. Please, let me see you."

He grinds his knuckles against his eye. He wishes that were true. He wants so badly to believe that he could have the things he wants, all of them. Sam and Cas. He wishes it wasn't always a choice between one or the other. For a while, he thought it was possible. "I wish it was real, Cas," he whispers, weak and helpless. The door stays locked, needs to stay locked, because if it doesn't he knows it will be over. One look from Cas and Dean will crumble into him, will wrap Cas up in his arms and never let him go. "I wish it'd been real."

"It was real," Cas whispers back. "Dean, I promise. It is real. You're enough. You're enough for me."

"What?" Rivulets of ice trickle through him. Those words are too specific, too purposeful a turn of phrase to be coincidence.

"You're enough," Cas says again, voice growing confident with false hope, like he's found a magic key. Each new word feels like the stroke of a saw scissoring through Dean's sternum, cracking apart his rib cage. "At night, you lie there next to me, and you think to yourself how you want to be enough. How you've never felt enough for someone, but for me you wish you could be. And you are, Dean. You're enough for me. You're more than enough."

Before, he didn't know how to believe in angels. How to believe that Cas was one. But mind-reading, that's hard to disregard. "You listen to my thoughts?"

Silence. Just silence.

Nothing's left anymore to stop the tears as they spill over and streak down his cheeks. "You do. You knew." Somehow that's the worst of all. All this time, Cas knew, and it didn't stop him. It didn't stop Cas from lying about Sam. It didn't stop Cas from lying about what he is.

It didn't stop him from pretending like he didn't know. Cas stole the way he felt, his right to divulge or not his own feelings at a time and place he chose, and in a moment that would have been special, _should_ have been special, all without Dean ever being aware of what he’d lost. And Cas just made none of it matter. Made none of _Dean_ matter.

"So, what," Dean gruffs into the silence, "what was the plan, Cas? Were you just going to keep paying me for sex—forever?"

He has to wait for the answer. So he does. He sits there, lip trembling, tears dripping off the edge of his jaw, and waits Cas out.

"It seemed like an acceptable arrangement to all parties involved," Cas says eventually.

A wet gasp breaks past his lips, a terrible corruption of a laugh. "You’re an asshole."

"As in mutually beneficial! Dean," Castiel chides. Or maybe begs. "Dean, please. Don't do something you'll regret."

Nothing. This was all nothing. He wasn't supposed to let this happen.

White pills litter the floor next to him. Pain medicine has got to be exactly what the doctor ordered. Ignoring Cas's pleas in the shape of his name, he palms five and downs them dry. They scour his throat when he tries to swallow. That's over twice the recommended dose but the point isn't to get high. He just wants to go the fuck to sleep. On hands and knees he crawls towards the low, wide bed in the center of the room. Curling around the pillows, he shuts his eyes and listens to the lure of the opiates to fuzz everything out.

"I already have."

 

* * *

 

The knocking at the door rouses him, slowly peeling back the layers of the cocoon of sleep. Time has passed, but he doesn't know how much. Without the late afternoon sun, the room swims in shadows, quiet. Outside the window is dark, the colors of the glass muted with night. His senses still feel muffled as he pushes himself up from the bed, the drugs leaving him dull just like the colors in the windowpanes. He expects to see Cas when he unlocks and opens the door, stubborn indignation at being locked out of his own bedroom, but Sam stands on the landing instead. His mouth bows into a sympathetic frown when he sees Dean. Already dressed for bed, he holds up a bottle of Jack's and a bag of microwave popcorn.

"My gift-giving getting any better?" he jokes, and Dean can't help his tired huff of amusement. It isn't in him to turn down a peace-offering right now.

Switching on the overhead light, Sam follows him into the room, looking around in curiosity as he takes in everything. "You know, I've never been up here? It's weird. I know the whole house belongs to Cas but this is, like, the only room that really feels like him."

Dean hugs one of the pillows to his chest as he leans back into the mound of them on the bed. "Yeah. Hippie stoner chic. That's Cas. There's a random gong in the corner." He aims a finger at it so Sam knows where to look. "I don't why he has it."

Sam gives a dry chuckle, and then crawls over the mattress to sit next to him, unloading the popcorn and whiskey between them. He rips open the bag and offers the first handful to Dean. They eat first kernels in silence.

"I know you're having some issues right now," Sam says eventually, wiping off butter onto his sweat pants. He shoots Dean a wince of apology. "I overheard some of your guys' fight."

Dean snorts and shakes his head. "Probably the whole block heard some of it. Not your fault."

"I'm still sorry," Sam says. "I wish . . . I wish I could make this easier for you. And I wish we didn't have to do this now. But I feel like you just—you just don't understand where I'm coming from, Dean. And we're running out of time to decide."

Sam's right. Dean absolutely does not want to do this now. He scrubs at his face. But time, yeah, they never have enough of it when they need it. Shoveling another handful of popcorn into his mouth, he buys himself a few extra moments to get it together, then swallows and sighs. "So you, what? You want to stick a straw in Yellow Eyes and drink him like a juice box?" He shakes his head. "I don't know why you think I could ever be on board with that, Sammy."

Sam grimaces. "It's Sam, Dean. Sam. I know you don't mean anything by it but I . . . "

"It makes you feel like a chubby twelve-year-old," Dean says. "Yeah." Because he knows. He remembers. Old habits are just hard to break. "I guess I just miss that kid, man. He was a cute-ass kid." He tries for a smile, but Sam doesn't lift his head to see it. Right now, it feels like some kind of metaphor. That's just how it goes.

"Dad used to call me that," Sam says, staring at his lap. "Never Sam. It was always Sammy. Little Sammy. Protect Sammy. Don't trust Sammy."

The bitterness in Sam's voice catches Dean off guard. He leans forward to try to snag Sam's eyes. "What? Come on. Dad trusted you. He just wanted you to be safe."

"Yeah, I know," Sam huffs. "Because I'm the baby of the family." He looks up to meet Dean's eyes. "But Dad still didn't trust me, Dean, even when I got older. He taught you to shoot at, what, six?" For the sake of fairness, Dean nods. "Yeah," Sam says, making his point. "And when did Dad teach me to shoot, Dean?"

Dean lowers his head. "He didn't. I did."

Sam nods slowly. "And when did Dad take me on my first hunt? Not the ones I got left behind in motels waiting for at least one of you to come back, or stuck in the library feeding you information. A real one. When I was at ground zero, pulling my own weight."

Dean has to look away. The answer to that is never. At least never on purpose. The times Sam had been with them were unfortunate accidents, timing that couldn't be helped. Dean's the one who first stuck a crossbow in Sam's hands and told him to cover the front door so Dean could go cover Dad around the back. Dad never wanted Sam there. At the time, Dean used to resent that. He had calluses from digging graves for Dad by the time he was thirteen, while Sam got to sit at the motel, worrying about school work and winning soccer trophies and keeping up with TGI Fridays on television. Sam's life seemed like the ideal, the way things should be, but Dean never spent a minute thinking what it must have felt like to Sam, left alone and hoping like hell someone would come back for him, knowing he didn't have permission to help.

"Dad blamed me for Mom's death," Sam says suddenly, and Dean jerks his head up. Sam's just watching him with sad eyes, a lamentable swivel to his mouth. "That's what it was. Maybe not consciously. But subconsciously, he believed it. If it wasn't for me, she'd still be alive. You'd have grown up normal. Got the girlfriend, got the house. Got all the things Dad wanted for you."

Something in Dean's chest wrenches. "That's not true," he whispers.

"It is," Sam insists, heartsick but resolute. "You don't know what it was like. You and Dad, you had each other. You have memories of her. Pictures with her. All I have are pictures _of_ her. And I'm not in any of them."

He wishes Sam could remember Mom. His own memories are few and fuzzed with age. But he remembers her hands. He remembers her laugh. He wishes he could just embed those memories into Sam's head, so Sam could share in them too. "She loved you," Dean tries, needing Sam to believe that.

"I know," Sam says, but it sounds like it's out of habit, not because he really believes it. He pulls his knees up to his chest, and Dean hates it, the way it makes him look small, all of things. "I want to believe she'd love me if she was here. I want to think she'd like me." Mustering up a weak smile, he shrugs. "But I just—I just can't know. I'll never know. All I ever had was you and Dad, and—"

Dad wasn't perfect, not by far, but Dean knows down to his bones that Dad loved Sam. As much as he could, Dad gave both of them whatever love he had left. "Dad cared, man. Dad tried."

Sam slaps a hand suddenly against the mattress. "That's not the point! Maybe Dad loved me, Dean, but he sure as hell never told me." Ireful eyes pin Dean with a glower. "Even as a little kid, he didn't trust me to be able to handle anything. Everything I know about Mom, I know from you. Hunting and monsters, I learned about it first from you. Dad just . . . even when he was around, he didn't talk to me like he did to you. He didn't tell me jack squat. He came to Stanford to--what? Spy on me? Check up on me? If he wanted to know how I was doing, he could've asked me, Dean! He could've picked up a damn phone."

That's an old injustice, but the coals of it easily rekindle in Dean's chest. "That goes both ways, you know." Sam likes to pretend leaving for Stanford was just a thing between him and Dad. But Dean was there too. Dean got left behind and shut out, too.

Sam meets him head-on with a glare. "How long did Dad know about the demon blood? How long did he know, do you think?" Sam challenges, low and angry, and just. No. That's just not fair. Sam chases his eyes when Dean looks away, relentless. "Come on, Dean. He knew about Yellow Eyes. He left you to go chase after him. That's why you came to Stanford to find me. But he never said anything to you, did he?"

Dad left him coordinates in the journal. Dad gave them clues to track him down. Except the coordinates could have just been notes Dad made for himself. Leaving the journal behind—maybe that had been more like a suicide note. A guarantee that if Dad found Yellow Eyes but failed to kill him, Dean would be able to pick up in his place. He bunches the muscle in his cheek, hating the turn this conversation has taken.

"And when Dad finally did say something," Sam continues, softer now, "he said it to you, not to me. Dad never told me goodbye, Dean. Dad never told me anything. And the thing he apparently thought was most important—the last words on Earth Dad _said_ , Dean, before he _died_ ," Sam chokes out, words thick, smacking his thigh for emphasis. His voice keeps cracking. "His last words were to kill me."

Sam's staring at him, eyes glassy and lower lip trembling. Dean desperately wants to look away but he can't. Dad loved Sam, but, fuck, even if he didn't, _Dean_ loves Sam.

"Do you really think," Sam whispers, "if you'd died that day instead of Dad, do you really think . . . "

It's awful. It's awful what Sam's trying to ask, the way his mouth keeps quivering. "What," Dean grinds out. But he knows. He knows.

"Do you really think I'd still be alive now?"

Fuck. Dean drags a hand down his face. He can't do this right now. Sucking in a breath, he gives the defense he knows Sam expects. But even to Dean's ears, it rings hollow, besides the point. "Dad wasn't a murderer."

His own shaky exhale comes out of Sam's mouth. "Dad did whatever he thought he had to do, Dean," Sam says. "And I'm sick of it. I'm sick of—of there being something _wrong_ with me. I broke our family," Sam gasps. "And now—now I'm marked for Lucifer. So I can break the entire fucking world."

A cluster of jerky, helpless sobs hitch out of Sam's throat, face blotchy and red, because Sammy never could cry pretty.

"I'm sick of it, Dean," he mourns. "I don’t want to have to carry around this shit in me. I want to be good. I want to be trusted. I want it to be _my choice_ for fucking once!"

Sam turns away, pulling the collar of his t-shirt up over his nose, wiping away his snot and tears. Dean stares down at the bedding, listening to Sam's shuddering breaths, trying to give Sam as much privacy as possible as he struggles to pull him together.

Once Sam seems more calm, Dean speaks, "I can't back you doing this."

He knows that's not what Sam wants. He gets now just how much Sam wants to do this. That Sam sees his powers as redemption, a way to turn the bad into good. But there's too much at stake. On a bare bones practical level, trapping Yellow Eyes has too high a risk of backfiring. He could escape. He could out-fight them, kill Dean, and then take Sam prisoner. He could force Sam into saying yes and make him lead his army anyway. There are ways.

But there are more reasons than that. More important ones. Hyped up on demon blood and angel blood, Dean doesn't know who Sam would be. Cas said when they first met him that Sam's soul was corrupted. Whatever little bit of blood Yellow Eyes fed Sam as a baby, it's still hurting him, even a quarter of a century down the line. What would Sam drinking more do? Would it turn Sam demonic? Would angel blood and demon blood make Sam into some weird kind of all-powerful hybrid? Cas and Sam both seem to believe that having power by itself means less than what you do with that power. But Dean knows you can't separate them out like that. Power changes a person. Whatever tiny flaws or weaknesses someone already has get exaggerated, exacerbated. Power eats through the rusting links in the chain, making it harder to hold yourself back, warping your perspective. You might start out wanting to do good but in the end the difference between bad and good will get smaller and smaller until it's barely there. He can't let that happen to Sam. That's as good as cementing their fate.

He catches a deep breath and then lets it out slowly, pursing his lips around it. "If you do this, you're going to become a monster, Sam. Same as the kind we hunt. And it means Dad's going to be right. I'll have to kill you."

"No, Dean," Sam presses, begging. His muscular fingers clamp around Dean's wrist. Dean pries them loose. "No I won't. Just trust me. God. Please. Just trust me."

Barely keeping himself together, he gives the wall over Sam's shoulder a long stare. "I can't," he says, and swallows. "And not because I blame you for Mom. Not because of the demon blood stuff. You lied to me, man. For the last six months, all you've done is lie to me." He finally looks at Sam's face and tries to come up with something. Some kind of feeling. Some kind of emotion at the sight of Sam, Sammy, his baby brother. But all he can find is a hollow numbness. "I don't know who you are anymore."

Coming here was supposed to save Sam. Living here, Cas was supposed to be different. Of all people, Cas was suppose to be the one who cared. The one who got it. Instead Sam's more broken now than when they got here, more vulnerable. Power hungry and blood crazy, purposefully trying to make the corruption inside him deeper. Dean doesn't feel much better off either. All they've done is managed to make everything worse.

"No," Sam snarls. "Dean!" 

Sam keeps protesting, grabbing for him again, but Dean shakes him off. Looking around the room, he takes in the shapes of things he's grown attached to. Notes how for a while he started to think of them as _my things_ and _our things_. How he'd started to want to think of this place as _home_. And he knows what he has to do.

"We got to go," he says to the air, waiting for it to hurt. Bracing himself for it. "Get back on the road. Get some distance and, and space. Get you off the angel blood first and foremost. Maybe with some time . . . Maybe you'll get your head clear. Get some perspective back. We just need to go lie low for a while."

It should hurt. Ripping your own heart out of your chest should feel like something. But there's nothing. Sam keeps pulling at him, and something hard eventually hits him in the chest. But he can't feel it. He can't feel anything. 


	11. Chapter 11

It rains that drizzly, grey Tuesday in late April. Dean flips the collar of Dad's jacket around his neck to ward off the mist that clings to everything and slicks the door latch to the trunk of the Impala. His duffle drops onto the fake floor that hides the guns with a thump, heavy and over-stuffed. For twenty-four of twenty-eight years he's been packing his life into that bag. Seven months living with Cas, and it no longer seems right that a life should be able to fit into a single canvas sack.

He made Sam leave behind his posters and curtains and books, even the ones Castiel had insisted were gifts and that Sam should keep them. The Impala doesn't have space for a library. It has just enough room for two duffle bags, the guns in the trunk, and a pair of Winchesters in the front seat. Just like it always was. Just like it has to be from now on.

"Sam!" he barks towards the house. "Quit dicking around and haul ass. We're leaving. Now." He slams the trunk for emphasis.

If Sam wants to do long, drawn-out goodbyes, that's his business. Dean doesn't. There's nothing here he plans to let himself miss, certainly not the inhabitant of the house. Something blue catches his eyes as he looks for Sam again—Noon to 8PM. No Sundays. No phone calls—and he turns away. His gut knew from the start. You can't trust faith healers; they make people believe what they need them to believe. Whatever else Dean wanted him to be, Castiel still turned out to be a liar and a fraud in the end.

He will give Castiel credit for one thing: faith does come at a price. A heavy one.

"Fuck," Dean breathes as his eyes start to burn and prickle again. His chest keeps aching. He doesn't need this shit. Today is the day they head out and move on. He's over it. He needs to be. All he's got to do is drive.

Sliding into the driver's seat, he bellows for Sam again. "I'm getting in the car, Sam. Get your ass out here already." In a few days, Sam will turn twenty-four, but Dean will always be the oldest, which means Dean will always be the one who needs to look out for them. A few days on the road, and Sam will remember how it works. How to know right from wrong. How to be someone Dean can count on. The only one he can count on.

Sam eventually comes rollicking through the front door and down the porch steps, his bag slung over his shoulder. Dean built those steps. He reframed the entire front of that house, and nailed those boards, and bought that paint and applied it. He cultivated those rose bushes that now have small buds of new life. He cooked in that kitchen and polished those floors and learned what it was like to fall asleep tangled up with someone wearing his shirt and his smell like he belonged on their skin.

Dean's first home burned to ash when he was four. Somehow without realizing it, he started to build a new home here, only to have another, different kind of fire rip it down again.

Well fuck that. Fuck that. He knows better than that. At least he thought he did.

He didn't leave the trunk open for Sam, so after a minute of bewilderment, Sam tosses his bag into the back seat and climbs into the passenger side. "Sorry," Sam wheezes, short of breath, "I was just . . . There was some stuff . . . " He glances at Dean and then swallows, cutting himself off, his face turned to stare out the opposite window. For several minutes, all Dean can hear is the low, familiar growl of the Impala's engine and the sound of their breathing filling up the car. "We don't have to leave," Sam whispers into the quiet. "We shouldn't go."

"No," Dean says, and wonders how long it will take him to learn to breathe normally with all the holes in his lungs. "We do."

Sam smacks his hand on the dashboard with surprising force. "No, we don't! Dean. Dean, if you could just _trust_ me—.  If you and Cas would both just—"

"No," Dean says. He stares straight ahead. His voice comes out steady. Air slides in and out of his nose at a normal rate. He jerks the Impala into gear and presses down harder on the brake. "Nuh-uh. We're not doing that anymore. That, you need to earn back."

From the corner of his eyes, he can see that Sam's staring at him, his eyes red-rimmed like Dean's were in the mirror this morning and his mouth warped in an angry, wounded gash. "You don't want to leave Cas either, Dean," Sam accuses, because Sam has always been the brutal one between them, and knows how to go for the jugular.

"No," Dean says, and feels his latest greatest failure slide its blade into his chest next to all the others when his voice cracks on that one final word. "I don't. But I don't got a choice. And—" He sucks in a painful breath for strength. "If you ever say his name to me again, I'll cut your balls off."

With no excuse for it—he knows better; he _knows_ better—he glances backwards into the rearview mirror as he guides the Impala away from the curb. There, tucked beneath the eaves, a grand circular stained glass window rules the view, a dark silhouette poised motionless at its center. Dean drives away with the image in his head of the grass below them illuminated in sapphire and amber and garnet gemstone, the way Cas felt folded against his chest, tight and perfect and panting around Dean, the salt tang of Castiel's neck against his tongue, the two of them painted on the ground as the dark, hot center of a supernova.

 

* * *

 

Dean drives until they cross the Illinois border, then keeps driving. He drives until his eyes lose depth perception and the thrum of the road has numbed his thighs, a thin, white headache strung between his temples from squinting at the flat, dark highway through bright flashes of oncoming headlights. Sam fell asleep hours ago, drool dampening the side of his chin where his cheek is smushed against the window. A road sign advertises a no-name 24 hour coffee and breakfast joint. It isn't until he's pulling up to the window to collect their order and pay that he remembers his empty pockets, the maxed-out credit cards, the last fifty he pulled from Cas's fee box going towards milk and bread that no one will eat now.

A rubberbanded wad of beige and green thrusts under his nose. Based on the thickness of the stack of bills, it has to be close to eight hundred dollars there. When he turns to look, Sam is blinking at him, gummy eyes squinched against the harsh overheads of the drive-thru. "He gave it to me," Sam says into the quiet. Cicadas chirp in the distance out the open window, the night and the muggy humidity pressing thick around them as though the cicadas and them are the only things left awake and alive in the world. "For emergencies. Until we get back on our feet."

The money fishhooks under Dean's breastbone. Sam sees generosity but all Dean can see is a bribe, like the guys at the truck stops who tipped him an extra five or ten for performance. That isn't what they should have been to each other. Necessity forces Dean to slide loose one of the twenties to pay the cashier. As he navigates back onto the highway, his coffee tastes extra bitter and strong, no matter how many sugar packets Dean dumps in it.

They roll through state lines like Dean rolls through the dial on the radio, hunting for something other than static. He memorized every alternative rock and oldies station along the Mississippi by the time he was fifteen. When he can't go another mile, he drags the Impala into one of the small look-outs along the interstate and halfway up onto a grass embankment. Cutting her ignition, but leaving the electrics and the radio on, he lets his head collapse against the back of the seat. A motel is out of the question.

Sam eventually crawls over the seat to sleep in the back. Dean listens to the radio play Bush's Glycerine and watches the dawn rise alone, pinks and purples chasing away pinpricks of stubborn stars. The DJ switches the song to the next request, dedicating it to "Brian", and a familiar orchestral intro fills all the space in the Impala and Dean's lungs. He holds his breath as Steven Tyler croons the first few lines into the early morning. He knows he should turn it off, the physical ache it causes in the back of his throat, but he doesn't. He closes his eyes, imaging the fever-hot press of Cas's chest beneath his cheek, and escapes into dreams.

When he wakes up, the might blue of the Gulf of Mexico stretches like a wrinkled blanket across the horizon, sunlight dancing on the wave-tips. Seems like they found themselves a beach after all. "Sam. Hey," he croaks and bats the back of his hand against Sam's shoulder until he wakes up. "Take a look."

When he forces a smile, it feels like a molten piece of metal pressing against a hemorrhaging wound, emergency cauterization.

 

* * *

 

They spend a few days in Louisiana. Dean drives them a meandering path on the cracked, baked-black roads along the coast. They sleep in the Impala. They wash up with wet wipes from fast food drive-thrus. Sam threatens to pour the contents over Dean's head when Dean suggests he use one of the empty water bottles in the back instead of stopping at a rest stop bathroom.

"I get it," Sam says. "You think I'm going to run. Somehow. In the middle of nowhere." Dean holds his tongue and refrains from pointing out that Sam has done that very thing in the past. "I'm not, Dean. I still think we should go back. But right now I just want to get to _stand up_."  

Dean compromises and pulls them off into a parking lot of some wooden hiking trails. The tree cover should give Sam privacy to go relieve himself. When Dean walks over to a couple picnic tables set off to the side of the parking lot, the sudden whiff of the peaty, burnt stank of marijuana hits him so hard that he almost doubles over. Tears prick his eyes. He presses his fist to his mouth, waiting for it to pass. Just a few more days, a few more months maybe, and he'll be okay again. He'll learn how to settle again, just Sam and the endless road and the next hunt. One day this will be nothing but scar tissue, rubbery and too deadened to hurt anymore.

Sam catches his eyes when he returns, mouth bowed beneath something too soft and understanding for Dean to like it. He doesn't hide his glassy eyes as Sam leans a hip into the picnic table next to him.

"Dean."

"What."

"Do you want to talk about it?" The hopeful openness fades the longer Dean keeps staring at Sam in silence. Sam sighs. "Come on, Dean. It's obvious you're upset. You don't want to spend Cas's money. You don't want to find a case. We can't keep just driving around forever. We should go back."

Dean grunts. That's not even worth a full word.

"I guess I just don't get it," Sam tries next, linking his fingers together and staring down at his hands. "Cas isn't a demon. He's an angel. I know you're freaked out, but he's one of the good guys. He was helping me."

"Yeah," Dean manages. "To fulfill your destiny, remember?"

Sam's face twists. "You're taking the word of a demon over your own two eyes? Dean." That stupid gentle tone comes back as Sam keeps sneaking glances at his face, at his tight jaw where he's holding back tears. "You obviously, uhm, care about Cas. A lot. I don't . . . I don't get it."

Dean bites down on his lip and stares at the ground. After a second, he says, "You want to know what the other angels call Cas? They call him the Second Coming of Lucifer."

Sam exhales a disbelieving, "What? How—where did you get that from? What book?  Because—"

"There was no fucking book," Dean snaps. "Cas told me himself. We were in bed and he told me all about his 'family'. How he started doing shit they didn't like, causing problems. So they kicked him out. Cas ever tell you why he Fell?"

Sam swallows and shakes his head.

Yeah. Dean figured. "All right, then." He grips the back of his neck, digging his thumb into the knot just behind his ears. The tension's giving him a headache. "So. Sorry. If you're trying to side with the angels, you picked the wrong damn one."

 

* * *

 

 They get back on the road.

 

* * *

 

They follow the shore of the Gulf through the torn-up roads of Mississippi and the red dirt of Alabama. Dean hangs a right to take them into the tourist town of Pensacola, gunning the engine with the windows open just to hear his baby roar down the long concrete stretch of the double bridge between the mainland and Santa Rosa Island, the blue-green of the ocean wide and open on either side of them for miles.

"You're angry I lied to you," Sam starts, breaking the silence as they cruise past soft, white dunes and pastel beach houses built tall on stilts to protect against the tide. "But you lied to me too. You never told me about . . . " Sam fumbles around for words while Dean focuses on keeping the wheels on the road. There's too many things Sam could pick to harp on. "I mean, did you think I'd judge you?" Sam finally goes for, eyes big and unhappy when Dean cheats a look at him.

The salt air burns a little in Dean's lungs when he draws in a deep breath. There are other things Sam could have chosen, more important things, but who Dean likes in bed seems like it's always going to matter, no matter the context. But since Sam seems to want him to be honest, he is.

"Duh."

Sam makes a hurt noise and frowns harder.

"People judge people over that kind of thing, Sam. Hell, people kill people over that kind of thing." He sneaks another look in Sam's direction, fingers squeezing the wheel and making the leather creak. "I don't want to have to wear pink or glitter or have a lisp or whatever you got to do to fit in that club. And I still like women anyway." As best he can, he shrugs. "I don't know, man. I always figured I'd tell you if it ever mattered. It's never mattered yet."

"But you and Cas—" Sam tries, and Dean shakes his head.

"Wasn't like that." And that's what hurts so goddamn bad. "Cas was paying me." He holds his finger up to stop Sam from interjecting and doesn't even need to look at Sam's face to know he wants to. "Look, that may be a big deal to you but it's not to me. This isn't the first time we needed money and that was the way I had to get it. I did what I had to do to make rent and pay his fees, and if I got stupid about it later, that's on me." He glances over to catch Sam scowling. "We didn't have some great romance, Sam. On Cas's side it was strictly business."

Sam seems to struggle to accept that, mouth opening and closing, little sounds of protest escaping. But at least he has the grace not to try to argue with Dean on that point.  "I'm sorry," is all Sam says eventually. Dean nods. "I wish you'd told me," Sam continues. "About this stuff. About liking guys. And you and Cas. And—hooking, I guess." Sam's eyebrows jump in silent commentary. "I mean, I'm not a little kid anymore, Dean."

 _So you should trust me_ , Dean hears behind that, unsaid.

"Yeah." He blows out a breath. "I want to," he decides after a long moment. "To tell you about stuff. You're right. You're not a kid anymore. But you're still Sammy. You're still my little brother and it's still my job to make sure . . .  If there's two straws to pick, I'll draw the short one. If someone's got to get kicked in the balls, I'll line up. As long as it means you don't have to. That's just how it goes. And I'm okay with that."

"I'm not," Sam says. He's staring Dean straight in the eye when Dean glances over. "I know you think it's your job. To protect me or provide for me or whatever. But it's not. It never was. That was Dad's job." Sam hitches his shoulders around a shrug. "I don't want you to be Dad, Dean. Or Mom, if that's who you try to be. I want you to be my brother. I want you to be my friend." Sam gives him a soft, wistful smile. "I'd like to be yours."

The hole in his chest grows wider, rushing open until it feels like it's going to consume him. It makes his breathing come fast, sharp and hard, like he's falling down into some bright, unknown world. Dean's never had friends. There's people Dad knew that Dean knows will help out when they need something: Bobby and Ellen, and Jo's cute. There's people he flirts with and people he lies to and people he charms. But someone who will listen to him, care about him and let him be, just as he is, he's never had that. Maybe he could have. Maybe that person should have been Sam.

The salt air burns, but it tastes clean and fresh, completely different from the earthy oak smell and warm fields of wheat of the Midwest. Dean buys them hot dogs from a street cart and sits with Sam in the car to eat them, watching the view of the waves crashing against the legs of a long dock and the tourists fishing for swordfish.

 

* * *

 

Eleven days after they leave Illinois, Dean pulls into a gas station just outside St. Petersburg, Florida. "Stay in the car, okay?" he tells Sam as he slips free from his seatbelt. "I'm just going to run in to get a few things and fill her up with some food too." He pounds the top of the Impala's roof as he leans in through the window.

Sam fiddles with his phone in his lap, his hair blocking half his face. "Dean. It's been over a week. I think I've proven that I can get out of the car without anything happening. Why don't you let me buy the food for once?"

The request should be reasonable but Dean honestly doesn't have an answer to that. It's not that he thinks Sam is going to bolt or whatever Sam believes is the issue. Yellow Eyes is still out there somewhere. Who knows how long it will take for the effects of the angel blood to wear off, and for Sam to change his mind about capturing rather than killing the demon. Licking his lips, he shifts his weight from foot to foot, and then taps the roof once more. "Just stay here, okay?"

The cashier is ringing up his gas for him, as well as a couple bags of chips and sticks of jerky, when the blinding light whites out the whole pump complex. When detail starts to bleach back into his vision, Dean drops his purchases and pumps his legs as fast as they will go to the Impala parked out front.

"Sam!"

He's not fast enough. When he yanks open the passenger door, the seat belt is still clicked into place, phone still waiting on the seat. But Sam is missing 

Sam is gone. 


	12. Chapter 12

The first year they were on the road, Sam used to religiously transfer his contacts from phone to phone. Most of the names Dean didn't recognize, and Sam never called the numbers anyway: old friends from Stanford, Jess's friends and family, other acquaintances that belonged to Sam's alternative, normal life. Dean doesn't know when Sam stopped saving his college contacts, but this phone contains only eighteen entries in the address book. When Dean thumbs the button to light up the last screen Sam was studying, BOBBY'S HOUSE appears at the top, followed by BOBBY (FBI) and BOBBY (OTHER). The next entry is a recent addition. It reads: CASTIEL (CALL ANYTIME)

In a house in Illinois there's a half-drawn sigil on the floor. Dean cranks the Impala's engine and pulls an illegal u-turn out of the gas station.

 

* * *

 

Thirty-three hours later, jittery and tense from amphetamines, Dean rolls the Impala down the dark, quiet street of Castiel's block. A breeze rustles through the trees, scattering the moonlight, promising the first scents of summer. This time when he walks onto the porch, no boards creak or threaten to snap. No patches of rotted wood reveal themselves. Leaflets and coupon offers litter the doorway, uncollected now that the house's number of occupants has dropped down to one again. Tape attaches a piece of paper to the front door. CLOSED, the blocky scrawl reads in Castiel's handwriting, GO AWAY. Dean yanks it down.

Suffering déjà vu, he bangs his fist against the door and waits. Music blares from inside the house. Not the usual fare with its heavy beats, but some kind of freeform jazz horror, rhythmless and discordant, like someone strangling a gaggle of saxophone geese. It must be too loud because Dean has to bang again before he gets a response.

"Go away!" a raspy voice slurs from inside. "I'm. We're. S'closed."

"Cas!" Dean bellows, and thumps his fist against the door again. "Open up."

Something loud bangs and crashes. Then the locks on the door begin to click, the chain unlatching, and Cas's voice comes disbelieving and soft from the other side. "Dean?"

Cas looks rough when the door swings open. Clutching the wood for support, one eye squints out into the dimness of the porch, the other eye huge, pupil blown so wide it eclipses the blue. Red spider veins web across the whites. Cas's hair stands up on end like it's been electrocuted, robe hanging off one shoulder. He reeks of alcohol.

Fucking perfect. Dean works his jaw. "You going to let me in?"

In his haste to move out of the way, Cas steps and slips on the end of the robe's belt where it trails on the ground. He catches himself before Dean can lend a hand, but it's enough to set Dean's teeth on edge. Cas could balance on a tightrope in the middle of a hurricane. To be this shit-faced, he must have drunk the volume of the Atlantic.

Dean mutters, "Jesus," under his breath as he walks through the front door and takes in the state of the room. The lights in here are low, but at least not off. The sigil is almost how Dean left it, scuffed and half-finished, but now covered with random paper debris and what looks like the innards to a cushion. A boom box sits on the floor, playing that god-awful geese music. The remains of one of the kitchen chairs piles next to the door in splintered pieces, ready to be thrown out. Apparently Cas really had himself a party after they left.

He's also still standing at the door, lips parted dumbly as he stares into space, having had the presence of mind to close the door but not yet to release the handle.

"So—what," Dean taunts, spreading his arms out to signify the mess, "you got drunk and trashed your own house?"

Cas's head rears back, reactions exaggerated. "Obviously," he retorts, with aloof derision, like that's the stupidest question in the world. There's a lurch to his steps when he tries to leave the door, but that squinty-eyed scowl is in pitch-fucking-perfect form. "And usually my hallucinations are less . . . critical of my habits. Now if you would please remove your clothes and bend over, we can begin."

His fist connects to Cas's mouth as cruel devastation flashes red behind his eyelids. It sends Cas sprawling backwards, landing hard on his ass in stunned silence. "I'm not having sex with you," Dean chokes out, face flaming. "I'm not some fucking hallucination."

Blood trickles from somewhere near Cas's inner upper lip or gums, staining his teeth as Cas's face splits into a wide grin. The wheezy, hysterical laugh that emerges clenches Dean's hands into new fists. He hates that laugh. It's one of the most fucking depressing things he's ever heard in his life.

"Maybe you are," Cas says, touching a curious fingertip to the source of the bleeding. "Maybe you're, uh, the part of my subconscious that knows I deserve retribution. My punishment. That's the only reason Dean would come back to me."

Eyes too perceptive for someone that drunk latch onto Dean's, asking a question, and Dean's lungs swell and clench. If Cas has decided Dean hates him and nothing can be done about it, then that's that. There's nothing here to salvage, not even a passable professional relationship as fellow hunters. As soon as they find Sam, Dean's out of here, for good this time.

"I need you to be sober," he says, with exaggerated calm, keeping his breathing even and controlled. "So whatever you have to do, do it. Clean out your system. Let's go."

Cas blinks at him, head lolling to the side like Dean might seem more comprehensible from that angle. It makes him look stupid, like some stupid cartoon bird, with too big eyes and a too wide mouth, dopey and dumb and ugly. Pathetic.

"Uh. All right," Cas says, but does nothing. He leans back on his arm, listing to the side, still as drunk and fucked up as he was a second ago. "Serfectly pober now."

Rage, it's got to be, strangles Dean's throat. It's not helplessness locking up every joint in his body. It's not hopelessness stinging his eyes. This is all wrong. None of this is the way it should be: Sam missing, the house a destroyed mess, Cas on the floor bleeding and grinning, out of his mind on God knows what. No way that's just alcohol leaving Cas slurred and acerbic and pitiable. For fuck's sake, there's only so much Dean can handle at once.

"What the fuck's wrong with you?" he forces out, too quiet and ragged. "Sam's _gone_ , Cas, and you're drunk and making jokes?"

Cas straightens from his recline, expression deflating into a serious composition. "What? Where is Sam?"

"I don't _know_ ," Dean growls, and fuck everything when his breath hitches. Like hell he's going to give Cas the privilege of seeing him fall apart. Concentrating on how hard he can squeeze his fingers in his fists, knuckles bulging like they might buckle, he sucks in a stabilizing breath and tries again. "Something took him. He's gone. He was just—gone."

"What?" Cas asks again, like a parrot that can only repeat five known phrases, and Dean has to control the urge to stamp his foot. Maybe into Cas's nose.

"I don't know! What part of 'I don't know' do you not fucking get?  Best guess: Yellow Eyes. So I need you to be sober. Or if not sober, at least functional. I need your help," he grits through his teeth, aware that none of these are things Cas is able to offer right now. "I need the spell."

Cas sits on the floor and doesn't say anything and doesn't say anything. His eyelids hang heavy over his eyes and fuck that; it's not like angels need sleep. At least when Cas was cracking jokes, he wasn't straight-out ignoring Dean.

His nails press so hard into his palms that it physically hurts. "Did you hear me?"

"I don't think the spell will work," Cas says finally, fingers rubbing over his chin. Dean's heart stops in his chest, like the weightless moment right before the rollercoaster plunges down, a frozen pause that goes miles beyond panic. That spell was his only shot, the useless addict on the floor his only ally, and how stupid, _stupid_ he was for letting a small flicker of hope live where Cas was concerned. "We need something else to be able to reach Sam immediately," Cas adds, finishing the thought. The words come out slow like he's putting the pieces together one by one in the air in front of him. "We need to reverse the summons, not adapt it."

All the breath in Dean's lungs leaves in a rush. "What?" he asks dumbly.

Cas shoves a hand through his already disheveled hair, looking frustrated. It leaves the stuck-up clumps in worse disarray. "If Azazel has Sam, then Sam is under great risk. Not only due to whatever Azazel plans for him, but because I fear Sam's immunity to demonic influence won't include the origins of that influence." Cas stares up at him, hard.

Dean stares back. This is so not reassuring. "You think Azazel is going to possess him?"

"I don't know," Cas says, eyes like flint. "There are other ways to manipulate someone besides possession. Such as drinking more of Azazel's blood. That would be the most efficient way to force Sam into doing whatever Azazel wants."

Fuck. _Fuck._ Dragging a hand down his face, Dean has to consciously focus to stay balanced on two feet. Sam is going to play right into Azazel's hand and not even realize it.

"We can use the spell," Cas goes on, "but not in its current configuration. That would only trace Azazel, but without Sam to interpret a location, that information is all but useless.  If we reverse the summons—send someone to Azazel rather than bring Azazel here—the location itself won't matter. And we can reach Sam faster that way. Unlike your very time-consuming, very slow habit of driving everywhere."

No one usually gets to insult the Impala or Dean's driving, but it did take him almost a day and a half straight just to get here. Instant teleportation would have been a hell of a lot nicer. "Can you do that?"

"Technically? Yes." Groaning, Cas pushes himself off the floor, a start-and-stop stumble for balance, wiping the chalk dust off his hands onto his robe. "The spell itself is easier, more straight-forward. The issue lies in how to power it." He shoots one of those shifty-awkward looks at Dean, the ones Dean's finally cottoning on are how Cas looks when he's being evasive. "Tracing the origins of something through space-time, that requires only the correct tools and know-how. Forcing an object through space-time, that requires . . . some muscle."

Right. Dean has a sneaking suspicion he knows what kind of muscle it is, too. "So, what, you're going to give me some of your blood now?"

The smile Cas gives him this time isn't that awful grin. This time Cas's smile is small and quiet and even worse to look at. "No," Cas says, his mouth tugging to one side and his eyes very, very soft. It's uncomfortable. It's inappropriate. Dean shifts his weight between his feet. "That would be comparatively easy. This . . . " Cas swallows and look down, a hand collaring the curls of ink surrounding his neck. "I unbind myself from this form. I use the remains of my Grace to send you to Sam."

 

* * *

 

Just what the hell _unbinding_ means, Dean has no clue. "Let me get this straight," he says slowly, ignoring the lurch in his stomach as it tries to pool into his heels, cramped with dread. "You feel shitty so nothing left to do but go suicide-mission mode?"

"It's not lethal," Cas objects. "Not in itself."

Maybe this is the part he's always missed about Cas. Not just the angel thing, but the brilliant ability to double-talk. To make one thing sound like something else, and do it without a single outright lie. "Right." He draws the word out, stretching sarcasm into it like pulling taffy. "Guns don't kill people. People kill people."

"This is the only way," Cas insists, and there's that chin, lifting in challenge, stubborn and self-righteous. It's a trait he used to like about Cas, the way it means Dean can charge at Cas full-tilt and Cas will meet him pound for pound, no matter the force of personality Dean launches at him. A true equal. But it's also a trait that drives Dean crazy; it turns even the smallest or most obvious solutions into drawn-out squabbles for dominance. "Unbinding by itself is not dangerous. Do you remembering the binding symbol the demon placed on your arm?"

It's not like Dean could forget it. 

"That is all that binding is," Cas explains, with his usual tactless dismissal. "To unbind myself means to break the spell work locking me into this form. This body. The danger comes from the fact that, without the protection of my tattoos, I will also be—traceable. As Azazel is. As all angels are."

Months ago Dean asked if Cas's tattoos mean anything. Tracing the swoops of ink around Cas's neck and collar bones, the Enochian lettering bound around his arms and snaking across the back of his hands, Dean reconsiders what Cas meant by _protection_ , by _strength_.

Watching him with wary curiosity, Cas nods slowly. "Yes." Not _as though_ Cas can read his mind. That's probably exactly what Cas is fucking doing. "After Jimmy's soul departed, I bound myself to this body, to preserve the last of my fading Grace, and to conceal myself from my brothers, should they come to finish what they started."

"Because your family has a hate-on for you being Lucifer Jr." That's who Dean's dealing with here. He can't forget that.

Pulling himself to his full height, Cas pushes his shoulders back, spine rigid with offense. That defiant pride gets undermined by how he still lists noticeably to one side. "You shouldn't speak of what you don't know. They hate me because I was trying to stop this very thing. Why is it you think I Fell, Dean? What campaign do you think Uriel invited me to join?"

"You tell me," Dean challenges back. But he remembers. Cas called it a feud, in-fighting in his family, brother against brother—angel against angel—and how two of them wanted to re-create the fight. One final showdown, winner takes all. A stupid, foolish flare of hopes rockets into the sky inside him. "You—you Fell to stop the Apocalypse? That was the fight you were talking about it?"

"The First Great War in Heaven," Cas says slowly, "ended in Lucifer's Fall. The Second Great War will be for who takes dominion over the Earth, Heaven or Hell. That's why I fear Azazel's plans to mount an army. That's the war I think is coming. And we will all suffer its consequences, every living thing in all three spheres."

Dean can only stand there. Before, when Cas first brought up the Apocalypse, it sounded like a bad punch line to a joke. Impossible to imagine. The literal end of days exists outside Dean's scope, outside anyone's scope of comprehension. But looking at Cas, the still way he holds himself, the way he fights—angels are soldiers of God, he said—and Dean can suddenly see it. Cas is not just a fighter like Dean is, and not just a soldier like Dad was, eighteen shitty, fucked up months in 'Nam, but a veteran of a thousand wars. In Cas's eyes live the memories of literally watching the whole world burn, of being the person who maybe set a few of those fires himself, in the name of war and duty.

And Sam sits in the center of that.

Dean swallows. "So we stop it."

Cas looks down, shaking his head. "It's not that simple, Dean. The Apocalypse is prophesied. It's Fate itself. I don't know . . . I don't know if it's possible to stop it," he whispers.

Well, fuck that. "So fuck Fate!" Dean shouts, and gets a steely-eyed glare in return for his efforts. "If we don't do something, Sam's going to die, Cas! Where's all your big talk about faith now, huh? About believing shit's possible even when it's hard? We need to at least fucking _try_."

"Faith is difficult for me," Cas says, looking like he's one step away from blowing off the whole thing and crawling back into a bottle. But as Dean watches, Cas's shoulders slowly drop down and the muscle in his jaw stops ticking, and Dean already knows he's won half a second before Cas nods. "Fine. Fine." He throws his arms out in nihilistic abandon. "We might all die, but why not? Why the hell not, right? If it's the end of the world anyway?" He meets Dean's eyes, too intense and quiet for what should be a throw-away line. "If that's what will make you happy."

 

* * *

 

They still need to get the fresh herbs and the goat's blood again. In the morning Dean's going to hit the butcher's and the grocery store, and the head shop a few towns over for the rarer herbs. For now he stretches out on the over-stuffed, blue flannel couch in the sitting room, unable to face either his old bedroom or Sam's empty one. Cas retreated upstairs to the attic alone.

Despite being awake for over forty hours straight, sleep comes in only snatches. When he closes his eyes, he sees Sam with Yellow Eyes, bound and bleeding, being forced to say yes. Sometimes it's Sam as Yellow Eyes, mouth stretched around an ugly grin and black smoke trickling out, the entirety of the Midwest ablaze behind him. The goose bumps shivering up and down his arms jerk Dean awake after what feels like only seconds since he shut his eyes. When he tries to roll over and clear his head, focus on here and now and not Sam, not a potential Apocalypse, all he can see behind his eyelids is that sad, resolute set to Cas's mouth and dreams of Cas unraveling row by row like a loose sweater made of yarn, disappearing into nothing.

He wakes up muddled and groggy, the sunlight already streaming bright and strong through the windows above the couch. At some point during the night he gained a blanket from an unseen benefactor. On the coffee table a fresh mug of coffee waits for him, as well as a tiny bottle of milk, a bowl of dry cereal with a spoon, an apple, and one of those microwave breakfast burritos from the gas station, still in its plastic wrap.

"I walked to the gas station when it opened," says a low voice from the doorway. Dean doesn't look up. "There was nothing suitable in the house. I didn't know what you'd like." 

"Thanks," Dean grunts, lips too numb to work. He pours the milk over the cereal, and a little into the coffee, and tries to eat enough that he won't be hungry again soon. By the time he stands up to grab a shower, Cas is long gone.

 

* * *

 

Cas finally shows his face in the afternoon, several hours after Dean returned from collecting ingredients and has already done all the dirty work of sweeping the floor and scrubbing the blurred chalk marks from the failed attempt to draw the sigil the first time. Something long and thin, bundled in a blanket, cradles in Cas's arms, and a piece of paper that he slides across to Dean once he kneels down. It diagrams the changes to the Call sigil, a second binding circle added at its the center.

"I modified it. The goat's blood can still be used to power the primary circle, but my blood will be needed for the second circle, where you'll stand," Cas says, tapping the paper. "I'll also require your assistance to sever the key links of my tattoos, so I can be unbound."

Dean bites down on the inside of his cheek. "Super." Because, hey, what's a little bloodshed between whatever the hell they used to be. He gestures to the bundle. "And that?"

Cas tucks the folds of the blanket down to reveal the silver-bright hilt of his sword. "You still need a way to kill Azazel," he says, not quite meeting Dean's eyes. "And this is still the most effective weapon. Unfortunately, you won't be able to touch it. Sam will need to wield it."

Right. When they were first discussing the original plan, Cas made some big deal about his sword being Excalibur and Sam the only one worthy to pull it from the stone. There's having mutual friend crushes and then there's just plain old favoritism.

"I think I can handle it," he grumbles, but Cas shakes his head.

"You don't understand, Dean." Rolling the blanket open on the floor, Cas reveals the sword's full blade, letting Dean inspect it up close for the first time. It looks like no kind of metal he's ever seen before, pearly and bright like pure silver, but when Cas tilts it onto its tip, it catches the sunlight like glass, almost translucent. Like it's made from the clearest, purest diamond Dean has ever seen. "This is not just a sword. It's a part of me. It was a part of me," Cas amends quietly. When he catches Cas's eyes, they're blue and wide and earnest. "This blade is a shard of my Grace, the only one of its kind. The last I have left. It can only be wielded by an angel, or someone with a mark of Grace in them that mimic an angel. Sam has my blood, so I think he'll be able to wield my sword. But you mustn't touch it, Dean." Wrapping the blade once more in the blanket for safe-keeping, Cas adds, "I don't want it to hurt you."  

Dean gets it now, the way Sam looked touched and overwhelmed when Cas said he’d give him his sword, what it feels like to be told that you're being trusted with a literal piece of someone. But trusting Sam to use it to kill Yellow Eyes instead of turn him into a convenient drinking fountain, Dean's not so sure. If Sam can use Cas's sword because he has Cas's blood in him, then the answer seems obvious.

"Give me some of your blood then." It comes out too gentle, hushed and intimate, to be the order Dean intended it as.

Cas still reacts like Dean shouted it. He physically recoils, catching himself with his palm on the floor. "No," he snaps. "That's one thing I won't do. Don't ask it of me again."

The sheer hypocrisy rankles. "Why," Dean demands. "It's okay for you to fuck with Sam like that but not me? I thought you said you were trying to help Sam."

"I was," Cas growls, pushing to his feet. "I _am_. But your soul isn't corrupt. You don't require that from me. The answer is no." When he opens his mouth to argue back, Cas raises his voice over him, hard-hitting finality as he stalks from the room. "The answer is no."

 

* * *

 

Dean works through the afternoon and late into the evening transcribing the sigil from Cas's diagram to the floor. Working quadrant by quadrant, starting from the center this time and with nothing to distract him, the process goes faster. Getting all the flicks and swishes of the Enochian lettering correct still cramps Dean's hand like a bitch, his back and knees aching from being hunched nose-down over the floor. But by the time the sun is long gone and he retreats to the kitchen to recharge with caffeine, the Call sigil stretches across the main room floor, complete.

Cas wanders into the kitchen and over to the coffee maker while Dean's still leaning against the counter, inhaling the cold breakfast burrito from this morning. The robe is gone, replaced with a pair of faded jeans cinched at the waist with a belt, and nothing else. They only have a few hours until dawn, until Cas will unbind himself and Dean can get to Sam.

Watching Cas fix himself a cup of Dean's coffee, like it's something he does every day, lodges something sharp and resentful under Dean's ribs. All Cas has done since Dean got here is stumble around in dysfunctional intoxication or let his freak flag fly, unashamed and uncompromising reminders about Grace, about angels, about what Cas really is beneath his tattooed skin and too blue eyes. Eyes that aren't even really his. Cas putters around, opening and closing cupboards, hunting for a clean spoon, and stuff like that just shouldn't _matter_ when you're a freaking angel. The mundane mendacity of it all is just too much.

"Jesus, just _stop_ ," Dean finally snaps, catching Cas off guard and getting a sour look for his troubles. "Stop pretending. Stop trying to measure out exactly a teaspoon of sugar. You don't need to eat! You don't need to drink coffee."

Standing there, clutching his mug to his chest, Cas looks the very picture of any regular, cranky morning person. So perfectly, ordinarily _human_. "I like coffee."

Dean slams a hand on the counter. "No you don't! People like coffee. Humans like things and have favorites and preferences and, and feelings! You just have a body you stole and a shitty drug habit and money that you pay people so they'll have sex with you." What's left of the wad of cash burns a hole in Dean's back pocket, and he pulls it out to wave and then throws it at Cas's chest.. "What the fuck was this about anyway? Is that a bribe? You think you can just buy me back?"

Twenty dollar bills rain down over the kitchen floor. Cas watches each one float to its landing place, stiff and still, a muscle twitching in his jaw the only sign of life. "I don't want to buy you," he says slowly. "That was an act of kindness. Perhaps inappropriate, but well-intentioned. If you ever returned to me, Dean, I wanted it to be by your own choice." Cas looks up and Dean just can't look away, no matter how much he should. "That's why I won't give you my blood. If I did, you'll always wonder if your feelings for me come from that and not, not . . . "

And not because Dean's some stupid idiot who can't separate out sex from love. The presumptuousness in Cas's reasoning curls his fingers into fists. It's one thing for Cas to act like what he did couldn't be helped, like this was always going to end in Dean betrayed and rejected. It's another entirely for Cas to think Dean's still going to come crawling back anyway.

"You fucking, arrogant asshole," he growls. "I don't want you. I'm never going to want you. You think I'm that desperate?" Because that's what it is. He wanted Cas to be the person who could ease the empty places inside of him, keep him safe, keep him from wondering how long it'll be before he's alone entirely.

Cas steps into his space, chin up and eyes narrowed, looming over Dean despite being shorter. He traps Dean with his eyes, a hand coming up to hover just above Dean's cheek, one exhale away from making contact. "I think you're good at denying yourself things," Cas murmurs, studying Dean's face with such care, catching the breath in Dean's lungs. "I don't think you're desperate. I think you're afraid. And deep down, I think you still wish—I think you still want to believe," Cas's eyes drop to stare at his mouth as he leans close to Dean's ear, words puffing against Dean's cheek, "it was real. That it meant something. Dean . . . "

No one says his name like Cas does. A thousand meanings lace into that single syllable, all of them beseeching forgiveness, trust. And Dean just _can't_ any longer.

The groan he pulls out of Cas when he grabs Cas's face and slots their mouths together comes deep from Cas's chest, resonating all the way down to Dean's curling toes. Cas kisses him like he's starving for it, sucking on whatever skin Dean will allow him, clacking their teeth together. His arms fold around the small of Dean's back, strong and warm and solid, each touch of Cas's fingers a fever-bright point of connection. They turn as one as Dean pushes his tongue into Cas's mouth, rewarded with instant suction that goes straight to his dick, and Cas's hands slide down over his ass, to the backs of his thighs, gripping. Cas bends at the knees and the sudden pressure behind his thighs lifts Dean's feet off the ground, leaving him with nothing to hang onto but Cas, Cas's bare shoulders, Cas's hair, squeezing his legs around Cas's hips. He makes an enraged, alarmed sound that vibrates back at him against Cas's mouth.

Cas walks them into a nearby wall, hipbones shifting between Dean's thighs as Cas widens his stance and pins Dean up, back flush with the wall. Like Dean weighs no more than an empty cardboard box, unwieldy in dimensions but no effort at all to carry. His heels scrape against the back of Cas's thighs, searching for support, and he grapples to clutch the top of the fridge, something, anything to hold onto while Cas ducks down to suck at his neck, fingers rucking up Dean's shirts from around his waist.

It's overwhelming. Every subtle movement rubs Cas's stomach against Dean's dick, making it sit up and take notice.

"Cas," he gasps, tugging on the strands of hair caught between his fingers. Cas shoves his t-shirt up, sealing his mouth over one of Dean's nipples. The hint of teeth sparks electricity along his nerve endings, too much. Too much, too bright, too familiar. "Cas," he chokes out again, something wet catching at the top of his throat. It's the only warning Dean gets before two tears escape down his cheeks. "Cas, stop."

Cas lifts his head, eyes unfocused and lips swollen, parted and turned down at the corners in concern. Slowly, he helps Dean's legs slide off his hips, stepping back to give Dean space to tug his shirts back into order. He squeezes one hand in the other, rubbing at his knuckles, looking lost and small. "Dean . . . "

He can't. It's not there, the trust Cas wants, and if Dean jams his hands deep inside himself to fish out the little that's left, he'll bring up with it his entrails and the slimy, black bits that no one wants and there will be nothing left. Sucking in a deep breath, he drags the tears off his face with his hand, trying to refit whatever just broke and came loose in his chest. It's not working. "You lied," he stutters out around his hitching breath. "You lied to me. I can't just—"

"Dean," Cas says, expression twisting with remorse. If he pulled harder at his fingers, he'd probably rip them off. "I know. But I didn't know what else to do. Before, when I told the truth about what I am, they locked me up. And now, for the last half year, I wasn't alone anymore. I had these two— _beautiful_ humans. Who were kind and generous and cantankerous and fascinating. One who knew what I was, and trusted me anyway. And one who—who nearly knew. Who gave me something much more delicate than just his trust. Is it so impossible to believe I was afraid, Dean? Afraid of betraying Sam and of losing your regard?"

It's not impossible. But it's also not that easy. "You haven't even said you're sorry."

"I can," Cas vows. "Dean, I'll swear to it a thousand times over if that will make you forgive me."

"It doesn't work like that!" A small, ugly sob tumbles out. He covers his mouth and has to take a moment. "You don't _make_ someone forgive you," he gets out eventually. "Forgiveness is something you earn."

"Then how do I earn it?" Cas pleads. His hands hover around, empty and useless, looking for a place to touch. "Please, Dean." He tugs gently at the hem of Dean's t-shirt, smoothes out the wrinkles over Dean's chest. "You're unreasonably important to me," he starts, and the sting behind that makes Dean flinch. "No, no, Dean," Cas says, rubbing up Dean's chest to grip his shoulder in apology. "Please understand. What you mean to me, it is unreasonable. It's irrational. It's foolish. It promises nothing but pain."

He doesn't want to be here anymore. He can't stand here and let Cas break him into dust with his wide eyes and quiet voice. He needs at least one piece of himself left whole to get to Sam. Shoving at Cas's comforting hands, he angles a shoulder between them, words sticking in his throat. "Then leave me alone. Let me go if I'm, if I'm so bad for you."

"I can't! I don't want to. I want to spend the rest of your life with you, however short it may be," Cas says, and catches one of Dean's hands to bring up to his mouth and press kisses to his knuckles. Too soft. Too sincere. "A mere sixty or seventy years, but I want to spend them with you. I want to see you grow old. I wish I could do it with you."

That sounds like everything Dean should want to hear. But it's not. Cas isn't saying it right, like it's a real possibility and not a wistful dream. "What do you mean?"

"I may be Fallen, Dean, but that doesn't make me—mortal." A sad smile burrows into the corner of his mouth. "The span of my existence isn't something the human mind is able to comprehend. You've known me for just two percent of your lifespan, these last few months. That may seem like a small fraction to you. But for you to be with me for two percent of my lifespan, we would need to spend nearly ten million years together," Cas mourns, and Dean can't breathe. "Your entire life span will come and go in a blink of an eye for me, and then I'll be left with only my grief to pass the millenia."

He stares at Cas. Cas, who's standing right in front of him looking sad and remorseful and so perfectly human that the lie makes Dean's teeth ache. He can't imagine it, just like Cas said he couldn't.

"I don't know what you are," he rasps, and Cas smiles like the last crack of a broken heart.

"It's all right, Dean," Cas whispers in quiet condemnation. "I don't know what I am either." Turning Dean's hand over, he nuzzles his mouth against the palm. "I've subsisted amongst humanity for the past eleven years. But until I met you and your brother, I hadn't truly lived. You both revealed to me things within myself that I—I didn't know existed. But I'll never be one of you. I'll never be human. If you need that from me . . . I will always be found lacking."

Ensnared in the darkness of the kitchen, the black of his hair and his tattoos melting his outline with the shadows, Castiel haunts Dean's vision like a ghost, pale eyes and naked skin and tender underbelly on display. He looks like a creature only Lovecraft could love, a thing old and vast, permanently unknowable.

The inevitability of the situation sinks into Dean like he swallowed a mouthful of rocks.  "I don't think we can't do this."

Cas's head tilts to the side, a plea he won't let himself voice. Dean wishes he could wipe that hopeless look off Cas's face. But it's impossible. Even if he wanted to, even if Cas hadn't lied, it will never be so simple as taking Cas out on a date, splitting a milkshake with two straws, and asking Cas what his major was in college or what sports he played in high school or what he dreamed of being at five years old. Dean wanted to be a fireman. Castiel was never five years old.

"I'm sorry," Dean whispers.

Cas shakes his head, retreating into the shadows, fading away from Dean. "I understand. I will still do whatever it takes to find Sam. To restore him to you. You have my word."

 

* * *

 

Thirty minutes before dawn, they smear the goat's blood and oil over the outer binding circle, delineating the field for the spell to take place. Cas cuts his palms, five times in total, squeezing blood from the gashes before they heal to bind the inner circle. The herbs and the rest of the oil go into a bowl, along with the last few drops of Cas's blood. They light the candles Cas brought down from his room, one positioned in each quadrant, and one in the center.

"As I'm chanting," Cas instructs, "light the inner circle with the candle and stand in the center of the flames. When I finish, ignite the herbs. That will complete the spell, and it should send you to Azazel, and hopefully to Sam."

The inner circle is small, less than three feet in diameter, but it should be enough room for Dean to stand without catching on fire. "And you?" He swallows. "What happens to you after I leave?"

Cas lifts one shoulder in shrug, eyes on the bundled angel blade he holds in his hands. "I don't know. If I survive, I suppose I'll—I'll continue on as I did before. Faith healing. I would appreciate if you can tell me, after, whether you were able to get to Sam in time. That both of you are safe."

"Yeah. I'll give you a call," Dean says, and doesn't know if the strangled sound he makes at the way Cas automatically scowls wants to be a laugh or a sob. "Or email. You got wifi now. Just need a computer and an email account. You could book appointments that way too."

"I'll consider it," Cas murmurs, and then raises his head to look out the window. At the edge of the horizon, the faintest glow of purple chases away the dark blue of the night sky. "It's time."

Moving back for room, Cas whips the blade out of the blanket with a flourish, and delicately slices a thin line at his left wrist, the crook of his elbow, his left shoulder, and finally, tilting his head back, drags the tip of the blade in a straight, red line down the center of his throat, severing the links between his tattoos. Wrapping the hilt again with the blanket, he passes it over to Dean and holds out his right arm. "Do the same. Cut the links at each joint." Tiny rivulets of blood trickle down his chest.

Careful, scared to cut too deep, Dean scratches the tip of the blade across Cas's wrist, then elbow, then shoulder, then re-wraps the blade in the blanket. As he watches, the blood flow slows, replaced by a clear, white light radiating out from the thin lacerations. It reminds Dean of those observation boxes they used to force them to make in school before an eclipse, the darkness illuminated by the tiniest pinprick of light in the distance, bright and burning. Cas backs off another few steps, rocking his shoulders like an itch he can't scratch between his shoulder blades. His shadow angles across the hardwood, growing in size. When Dean blinks fast, he thinks he can see—something. A half-mirage where Cas is and isn't, the physicality of Cas's vessel small and blurred compared to the immense iridescence of Cas's true form hiding just beneath its skin. Two huge shadows akin to wings arise from Cas's back, spreading across the walls to fill the room. But even only half-there, they look torn, mangled, like a pair of giant claws once ripped through the feathers and bones, shredding them.

When Cas lifts his head, his eyes are glowing, irises radiating a brilliant bright blue-white. "Are you afraid of me, Dean Winchester?" he asks, and his voice sounds like a thousand voices asking at once, rich and booming.

He should be, Dean thinks. In all his years of hunting, he's never seen something like Cas. In all of humanity, Dean doubts someone has seen anything as breathtaking as Cas is at this moment. "No," he says, and isn't sure it's a lie. He lifts his chin to hold Cas's eyes. "The wings might be kind of doing it for me, actually."

Cas huffs a laugh, musical, like the deep thrum of a bass guitar. His head tips to the side, fond. "Your approval is appreciated. Now prepare the candles and stand in the circle so we can begin."

Lighting the candles, Dean steps into the center circle, blade tucked under his arm and holding the bowl aloft. Just as Cas begins to chant, the house quakes. It's not the same kind of structural shudder as when Meg and her demons attacked. This is bigger, heavier, like the Earth itself is splitting beneath them. And it won't stop. Dishes fall from their cabinets in the kitchen. Something large, like a bookcase, topples with a crash from the sitting room. A wind from nowhere rushes through the room, blowing dust particles into Dean's eyes and dousing the candles. The light fixture in the ceiling swings wildly back and forth, flickering. After a moment, it explodes like a sunburst, raining tiny sparks down onto Dean's head. Bracing an arm over his face to protect himself, Dean ducks and scrambles to re-light the candles.

"Friend of yours?" he calls over the noise. The ground shakes so bad he can barely keep stable even crawling on hands and knees. "They ever heard of ringing the door bell?"

Face tilted to the ceiling, Cas doesn't move, as if oblivious to the earthquake. "It's an archangel," he whispers, sounding almost awed.

A voice hard and deafening as thunder resounds through the room. "Stop what you're doing, Castiel. You were told long ago not to interfere."

"Raphael." A dangerous-looking grin breaks over Cas's face. "Come where I can see you, brother!" he shouts. "It's been too long."

"Cas," Dean warns, but Cas cuts him a reprimanding look.

"Get in the circle, Dean, and light it. The flames will offer you some protection. I'll distract him."

Struggling to hold his balance, he tips the candle flame to Cas's blood mixed with the oil. It ignites in a whoosh, trapping Dean inside. Cas returns to chanting, a grumbling, staccato incantation in a language Dean's never heard before.

The wind picks up, knocking over not just furniture this time but ripping at the walls too. The roof on the west side of the house rips free, debris spiraling into the air as if caught in an invisible funnel cloud. "You have been warned, Castiel," the voice thunders again, just as what looks like lightning arcs down and blazes like a fireball in the arch to the hallway. Piercing light floods the room. It's so bright that Dean has to look away, ducking his head down and squeezing his eyes shut.

Cas finishes the incantation, commanding, "Now, Dean!" That means Dean should ignite the bowl of herbs. But he can't bring himself to obey just yet. He needs to know what happens to Cas. He needs to _see_. Slitting his eyes against the light, he catches the bleary silhouette of Cas standing alone in the center of the room, unarmed and arms stretched out, facing the source of too-bright light. "Come get me!" Cas bellows into the sky. "Come get me, you bastards! Come finish what you started!"

One of the lightening bolts hits Cas in the chest, arching his spine backwards, raising him into the air. The shadows stretching from his back darken and thicken into a pair of slick, black wings, plated feathers sharp and smooth like onyx daggers. His tattoos glow, pink, then red, like brands being burnt into his skin, the protective bindings turned against him. They split open like seams and the blue-white light of Cas's Grace slithers free into the air. 

Writhing and groaning in pain, Cas turns his head at just the right moment. His eyes snag Dean's, a whole library of things they said and never said reflected in them. His lips form two syllables:

 _Go, Dean._  

Dean dumps the candle into the bowl, igniting the herbs and dropping the room away from him, listening to the sound of Cas screaming.  

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> If you want a taste of Cas's emo geese music: [check it](https://www.youtube.com/watch?v=8bRTFr0ytA8).


	13. Chapter 13

Dean comes to with his knees in the dusty grass and a cool mountain wind baying through the beams above his head. He's landed in some kind of abandon building, the floor and walls long gone, leaving the skeletal frame to rot. Little else exists. A flat open area stretches before him, wide and long like a road. It might have once been the main drag through town, back in the 18-whatevers when this place was still kicking. Now it offers only sand and a few stalks of dead grass. The buildings along the street huddle together as if for warmth, their dilapidated exteriors grey and crumbling. Night mutes any color, the pink rays of dawn nothing more than a sliver of a suggestion on the distant horizon.

The lack of light and the sandy ground leads Dean to guess he's somewhere west, maybe the western side of South Dakota, or even Wyoming or Montana. This town looks like an old mining town, one of the ones that went belly-up after the gold and silver deposits ran dry. A ghost town. There's no one here.

Except Yellow Eyes. He must be somewhere nearby, if the spell brought Dean here.

Shouting for Sam threatens to bring the wrong kind of attention. The empty bowl Dean discarded in the dirt where he first arrived, leaving him armed with only a blade that he can't touch and a gun in the back of his jeans that won't do jack squat against a demon. An old clock tower looms about thirty yards ahead, planted in the center of town and attached to what must have once served as the old town hall. Dean hates heights, but the view might give him an advantage of finding someone without being found first.

The wind dissipates as he walks, leaving the only sound the crunch of gravel under his boots. His head reverberates with the echo of Cas wailing.

The front double doors of the town hall hang open, rusting on their hinges. Inside, it smells like mildew and wet, rotted wood. Dust covers the floor. littered with nails and other sharp debris. Some places the wood no longer exists, gaping foot-sized holes perfect for twisting an ankle. He picks his way carefully through the building, holding Cas's bundled angel blade more like a bat. If something jumps out of him, he'll have time for one good strike. He plans to make it count.

His boot nudges against something thick and soft. Blinking to adjust his eyes to the low light, Dean gazes down at a purple, swollen face of someone he's only seen in the engagement photos displayed in her apartment. Ava Wilson's bulged eyes stare sightlessly across the room, her neck snapped. A second body lies just behind her. Dark skin ashen in death, Dean doesn't recognize him. Blunt, red dashes fleck his t-shirt, like tiny stab wounds made from a pocket knife.

Sam's carried a Swiss army knife every day of his life since Dean bought it for him at twelve years old.

Prying open a door in the hallway reveals the stairs that ascend to the clock tower. Dean leaves it ajar, planning to return to it once he finishes scouting the main floor. He turns the corner into another room when a cloth loops around his neck, garroting him from behind. Twisting, he lands a solid blow into the person's stomach, and the freezes at the familiar cry of pain.

"Sam?" he rasps.

"Dean!"

The pressure on his neck disappears as Sam flings away the torn-off sleeve of the over-shirt he was wearing the day he got abducted. Dean gets spun around and then wrapped in a hug an octopus would envy. Sam smells like fear sweat and fresh blood. Dust clings to his clammy bare arms, and Dean can feel him shivering under his hands, body wrecked from too many adrenalin rushes. "I killed Ava," Sam whispers into Dean's neck. "And Jake and Lily and Andy. He possessed them and I had no choice, Dean. I had no choice."

Sam's voice cracks and Dean chafes his palm up and down Sam's spine, trying to bleed some comfort and some warmth into Sam's trembling muscles. "Shh. I know you didn't. I know." Nothing in the world would convince Dean Sam killed any of those people without a damn good reason. "Is he here? Yellow Eyes."

Pulling back and sniffling, Sam shakes his head. "No. I don't know. He comes and he goes. Even when I think I'm safe for a few hours and try to catch some sleep, he shows up in my dreams. This is just all some _game_ to him. He said he was preparing me. For the hard decisions in war."

"Kill or be killed," Dean surmises, and Sam nods. "Except he's not going to kill you."

"I didn't say yes, Dean," Sam pleads. "No matter what he threw at me. Or made me do. I haven't said yes."

Looking at Sam, the bruises under his eyes and the lines around his mouth strained too tight with panic and desperation, the relief that floods Dean is unfair. But he is relieved. Sam's still here. Sam's still _Sam_. Banged up and brutalized, but whole at least. Nothing that a few weeks of rest can't heal. Clasping Sam's shoulder, shaking him a little just to feel the hard-packed solidity of Sam's muscle and bone, Dean tries to shake loose some of that burden.

"Well, I got a ride from Cas so I don't got a getaway car ready and waiting or anything." As Sam's confused expression, Dean elaborates, "He reversed the summoning spell so it'd dropped me here. Gave me his sword, too, just in case we run into Yellow Eyes himself. But I say we book it out of here before that happens. There's been enough death for one day."

And if his voice hitches a little at this, his head ringing with the sound of Cas screaming and screaming as the life-force got sucked from him, that's nothing Sam needs to know right now. He meant it when he said he wanted Sam as a friend, as an equal and his brother. But there's a time and place for things. Sam and Cas were friends, back before there was even a flicker of something on Dean's side. Unloading on Sam now is just sadistic. 

 

* * *

 

They make it to the outskirts of the town, Sam's arm looped around Dean's shoulders and Dean contributing a steady hand on Sam's ribs to keep him upright and moving. Each step that takes them farther away from what sounds like a trial by fire bloodbath slurs Sam's gait, exhaustion creeping in as the urgency to fight fades. As they hike across a broad, deserted field, mud squelching beneath their boots, Dean starts to feel more like he's carrying half Sam's weight, dragging him forward each step despite the snail crawl pace.

Then Sam gasps and keels over into the mud, clutching at his stomach and chest.

"Ah ah ah," a voice from behind them chides. "I can't let you leave, Sam. Not when the fun was just getting started."

Crouching over Sam, Dean turns to look at the new arrival. A tall man with a craggily face and short-clipped hair stands just five or ten feet back from them in the middle of the field, hands tucked into his pockets with casual ease. His eyes glimmer the yellow of old nicotine stains.

"And Dean!" he greets, like some magnanimous game show host. "How nice of you to finally join us. I was just saying to Sam earlier what a shame it would be if you missed the festivities. I'll admit, the location's a little drab for my taste. But you know what they say about parties: it's the entertainment that counts."

"You stay the fuck away from my brother," Sam snarls, still leaning on one hand with his knees in the mud, face wrenched in rage. "I'll never do a single damn thing you want from me if you even so much as look at him. And you know I'm your last shot. You killed everyone else. So you need me. You need me for Lucifer. You need me to start the Apocalypse."

Yellow Eyes tosses his head back and laughs. "Oh, Sam, Sam, Sam. Got it all figured it out, do you? The Boy with the Demon Blood. Marked and sentenced for the Devil Himself. But we took care of that already, Sammy! Remember? That memory I showed you of Mommy Dearest and me in your nursery? Your fate's been signed, sealed and stamped since Day One. Now that brother of yours, on the other hand," Yellow Eyes croons, "he's been a tougher nut to crack."

"I'm going to kill you," Sam roars, vaulting to his feet. He grabs for the bundle under Dean's arm, and for half a minute Dean fights him for it. He can't wield the sword while Sam can, but all he can see is Sam charging foolishly against Yellow Eyes and getting himself killed. But then Sam snaps, "Dean!", looking hurt and angry, impatient. "I can do this," he urges under his breath, _trust me_ riding just under the surface, and Dean relents. The blanket falls to the ground as Sam draws the sword free.

Yellow Eyes extends his arms out in invitation, circling slow, even steps to the side so Sam has to move to stay squared off against him. It effectively places Dean on the side lines between them, part of this but unable to add anything. "Go right ahead," the demon bids, smiling like some sleazy car salesman. "Couple more drops on my blood and just think how powerful you could be. Or how about a whole pint? How strong do you think you would be then?"

"You killed my mom," Sam seethes. "You killed _Jess_. You made me kill all those people. Good people. Innocent people. You've fucked with my life long enough. It ends now."

"Come on, Sam!" Yellow Eyes taunts, jovial. "All these egocentric flights of fancy that this whole thing has been about you? I'm sorry to break it to you, kid, but Dean's the one we've been waiting on. He's got a part to play in this too. Maybe the biggest one. We just need him to fall in line. Not that I'm too concerned about that," he adds with a wink towards Dean. "You always were ready to go to Hell and back to save your family, weren't you, son?"

Before Dean can open his mouth to ask just what the fuck that means, Sam shouts, "You're not fucking touching my brother!"

With a bellow of a battle cry Sam charges Yellow Eyes, sword held out in front of him like a lance. It pierces through Yellow Eyes's abdomen just as a bloom of yellow smog rockets into the air. The empty vessel Yellow Eyes was possessing falls to the ground, dead. Circling through the air, the yellow smog hovers, waiting, and then drives down on top of Sam. The attack throws Sam backwards and he hits the mud hard on his back. The angel blade goes flying from his hand, flipping through the air to stab into the Earth some six or seven feet from where Sam fell.

Dean rushes for it.

Grappling with the smoke, Sam contorts his head from side to side, physically hauling handfuls of smoke away from where Yellow Eyes tries to burrow into his mouth. The lack of body seems to do nothing to deprive Yellow Eyes of his power. Unlike the smoke demons they fought before, who could barely strike back without a physical form to materialize their strikes, Yellow Eyes flings Sam around like he's a rag doll. No matter how powerful Sam might have become, Yellow Eyes is still better, stronger. Slowly but surely he slithers past Sam's grasp, seeping into Sam's mouth and asserting control.

Dean watches it all with his heart in his throat, paralyzed and helpless to stop it. He has no weapons. The only thing at his disposal is the blade embedded into the ground, and he can't fucking touch it.

The scene in front of him looks bizarre. Despite the single body left standing in the field, the fight rages on as Sam battles internally for control. Limbs convulsing and jerking like some weird seizure, Sam manages to punch himself in his own face, smearing blood under his nose.

"Dean!" Sam's voice suddenly cries out. His expression warps through three or four emotions, uncoordinated and freakish-looking, but a resolute tension locks his jaw. "Dean, the sword! Give me the sword!"

The angel blade is the last line of defense Dean has against the demon. If that's not Sam, if this is some trick Yellow Eyes is playing on him, then that's the last thing Dean should do. And if it is Sam, there's only one possible plan he has for needing the sword, and then giving it to Sam is the last thing Dean _wants_ to do. He can't lose Sam. He can't just stand aside while Sam kills himself.

"Dean! Please," Sam entreats. At least Dean thinks it's Sam. He wants to believe it's Sam. The entity controlling the body looks Dean in the eye, and in a calm, confident voice beseeches, "Dean. This is my choice. I choose this. Just _trust me_."

And because it's _Sam_ , not little Sammy, not the kid whose snotty nose Dean wiped and whose Spaghetti-Os he cooked when Sam was too short to reach the stove, but the grown man Dean has just started to get to know. Because Sam is his brother and Dean _loves him_ , despite all the other shit Dad built onto that, Dean yanks the cuff of his flannel over his hand, grips the hilt of the blade, and throws.

The sword rotates through the air, glittering like crystal in the first new rays of dawn.

Sam catches it in the air, and with one last look at Dean, plunges the blade down into his chest, pitch perfect aim straight into the heart, just like Dean always taught him. His bones electrify under the onslaught, one flash Yellow Eyes's ugly, deform scowl, the next flash Sam's triumphant rapture.

"You can choose too, Dean," Sam says just before the blade slides home. "Go choose for yourself."

 

* * *

 

Dad said to save Sam or kill him, and in the end, Sam accomplished both on his own terms.

Dean knows Sam is dead. Intellectually he knows. It's hard to argue with biology. In the hours since he dragged Sam's body into the lobby of the town hall, Sam's face has gone purple and waxy. Blood pools at the lowest points of the body after death and dark bruising streaks the bottom half of his bare arms where they lie limp on the floor. Sam's hands and lips look nearly blue, his fingernails a white translucence. If Dean were to touch him, he knows Sam would feel freezing cold, and stiff from rigor mortis.

Eventually, Dean knows, the body will start to smell. It already smells bad, piss and shit staining Sam's jeans, the body naturally expelling its waste. But soon it will start to smell worse as Sam begins to rot, the human body little more than a sack of meat waiting to spoil. Tomorrow or the next day, he'll need to bury Sam. Or build a pyre from the scrap timbers he can salvage from the buildings.

If anyone deserves a proper hunter's funeral, it's Sam.

But Dean can't. He can't bring himself to move, sitting on the wooden floor next to Sam. Next to the body. It's been hours already, but time feels like nothing important. Tears drip from his chin, unnoticed and uncontrollable.

"I was just getting to know you," he whispers. Sam's eyes have sunk deep into their sockets, making his expression look oddly flat, ruining the look of peace Sam had on his face when Dean first hauled Sam's heavy head onto his lap in the mud. "We were finally going to have the chance to be friends, man."

He told Sam how he missed the little kid Sam used to be. But what he never realized is how much he missed of the man Sam had become.

"You still got to tell me about your Poli Sci classes. And where you took Jess on your first date. And what that stupid poster you put up in your room back at the house is all about. Do you even know photography? Or did you wing it and picked it just 'cause you like the look?" Salt gathers on his lips, trembling as he tries to lick it away. "How am I going know about pesticides in food if you don't tell me? I don't know what GMO stands for, Sammy. That's your job."

Sam's body lies there, unresponsive. Another sob breaks free from Dean's compressed lips. "We're always going to be family. But I need you to be my friend right now, Sam. I need a friend."

The words get lost in a flood of tears. Dean clasps a hand over his mouth, but it does nothing to muffle the sounds he keeps making. The terrible despair that rends from his chest. A plea breaks through, unbidden. A last ditch effort. A tear-soaked prayer.

"Cas."

Maybe if Cas truly is an angel, he can hear prayers. He'll hear Dean calling for him.

But Cas is dead. Dean saw with his own eyes as the light ripped free from Cas's skin, his grace siphoned out from the tears where his tattoos once were. The way Cas howled in agony, and it's fucking cruel that's the last thing Dean will ever hear from Cas. Not goodbye. Not something soft and kind. The guttural cry of a dying star being forced from existence.

He curls his arms tighter around his head, trying to block out the sound, wanting to pretend that they're Cas's arms holding him--someone's arms holding him--when a sob and a name choke free. "Mom."

He wants his mom. More than Cas. More than Sam. If he ever believed in someone who would answer his prayers, it would be her. "Mom," he sobs again, an angry keen driven by twenty years of pent up grief. It coughs up snot and phlegm, dripping strings of saliva down onto his shirt as he pants open-mouthed, wailing. "Mom. _Mommy_!" He screams it to the floor with all the force in his lungs, primal and bloodcurdling. But it does nothing, changes nothing (she doesn't come), and that strange betrayal only makes him cry harder. 

Memory degrades with time. Maybe as a child he knew that somehow. He knew that there would be a second, slower death across time, as she became more of idea than person, and so he clung onto specific moments as a talisman for _Mom: I had a mom once; this was my mommy._

He remembers her hands best. The way her skin was thin and dry, but her fingers strong, and the way they'd close around his hands. The way she would press in love and good luck and humility when he misbehaved with a squeeze to his chubby, too small hands. Second best he remembers her laugh, the way her mouth moved around a smile, the warmth in it, tinged with embarrassment whenever someone startled it out from her. The rest of the memories are vague, more like facts he can read out of a mental police blotter than lived experience. She used to wear some kind of fleece robe in the winter, thick and pilled, creating a soft cushion between her breasts for his head to rest when he sat in her lap for a story. He thinks the robe was red. She used to bake things from scratch and used to let him pretend to help. On Sundays she did laundry, down in the basement. He followed her once, asking when Dad would come back, and she paused on the landing, basket of clothes cocked on her hip, and wouldn't go any further until he went back upstairs. The basement, she said, was too dangerous for him, dark and damp. She wanted him to be safe. She always cut the crust off his sandwiches.

She loved him, and she was good, and he misses her. Mom.

He wants her here with him now, so she can hug him. So he can press his face into her chest and she'll gently chide him with a smile for crying, like when he scraped his knee on that loose step off the back porch. She can wipe away his tears while telling him that there's no reason to cry. They can fix it. They can make everything better.

_Everything's all right, Dean._

His sobs lose volume as his body exhausts itself with the effort, but don't ease in terms of anguish or need. He curls around himself on the floor next to Sam's body, arm tucked beneath his head, the flannel of his shirt a desperate stand-in for the comfort of his mother's robe against his cheek. In these moments, he can't recall what it is to be a twenty-eight year old hunter. He's a four year old boy on the floor of Sammy's nursery, alone in the house, and he wants his mommy.

Maybe she does come, soft and sweet as mercy, because sleep eventually falls over him

 

* * *

 

He wakes stiff and frozen, skin chilled from the hard floor and the lack of heat in the abandoned building. Snot smears across his arm and upper lip, slick and faintly sweet-tasting. His eyes itch from dryness, swollen and sore, and when he pushes himself upright off the floor, his head pounds, pounds, pounds to the pace of his pulse.

Sam told him to choose. To choose who he is and what he wants for himself. What he wants is his brother back. Sam got his redemption. He should be alive to enjoy it.

It takes him a day and a half, walking to a main road and then hitch-hiking the rest of the way into town to collect the supplies he needs. He hot-wires a white 1992 Dodge Ram pick-up truck to drive the forty-five minutes back to Cold Oak. He buries the box with a photo booth novelty strip of pictures in it, his face fixed and blank in every frame.

The demon offers him a year, and Dean kisses her with the conviction of a dying man's hallelujah.

 

* * *

 

Sam takes his first breath in three days.

Dean can barely keep his elated laughter from coming out as a sob.

 

* * *

 

Of course Sam makes him explain. Dean expects the judgmental expression, but not the hard shove Sam delivers as they traipse across the field back to the pick-up. He lands shoulder first in the mud, his right arm and hip coming away cold and damp and dirty. "What the hell?" Dean defends, staggering to his feet. The mud keeps slipping beneath his boots. "What the hell did you expect me to do?"

"Not make a crossroads deal!" Sam berates. "I made a choice, Dean. I made the choice to kill Azazel."

"Yeah. You made the choice, and I backed that, just like you asked. But not to die. Or was that part of this all along? When you said you wanted to be trusted was that code for 'want to commit suicide'?"

"No. Of course not." Sam looks away, expression mulish as he stomps through the overgrown underbrush next to Dean.

Even if Sam's angry at him for it now, Dean doesn't possess the wherewithal to regret it. Not with Sam alive and fuming and taking elephant-wide strides besides him, forcing Dean to keep up.  "Then respect my choice," Dean says, and gets the most vicious, dirty look. "Hey!" he snaps. "You're the one who told me to choose for myself for once. What I want. This shit goes both ways. You want me to trust you? Fine. You got a deal. But you got to trust me back. This was my choice. This is what I had to do."

Whatever line of argument Sam was mounting in his head seems to die away with that. They walk in silence for a few minutes, the afternoon sun beating down on the back of Dean's neck like a brand.

"Okay," Sam concedes eventually, not gracefully but it's a good effort. "You made a choice for you, and I—I can try to respect that. But you're going to Hell, Dean. How do you think that makes me feel?"

"Oh yeah," Dean drawls. "Like watching you stab yourself in the freaking heart was real good times for me."

Sam shakes his head, a low, frustrated growl building in his throat. "There had to be another way, Dean. Maybe Cas could have healed me, I don't know." And Sam's right: he doesn't know. Dean focuses on the tiny white dot of the truck parked up on the road in the distance and swallows back something heavy and hot lumping in his throat. "I mean, he sent you here, right? He gave you his sword. Maybe he could have done something."

Going to Hell isn't something Dean can exactly wrap his head around. A year's a long time to finagle a way to break a crossroads deal. But even if they can't, getting one more year with Sam is worth it.

At first he can't say anything to Sam's waiting silence. When he finally manages to push them out, the words scrape his throat raw. "Cas is dead, Sam. An archangel showed up and obliterated half the house when we were doing the spell and, I don't know, wanted to stop us. Stop Cas. Killing Yellow Eyes means preventing the Apocalypse and Heaven's in on that game too. Cas died distracting the guy so I could have a fighting chance of getting to you." Out of the corner of his eye, he catches the edges of Sam's frayed, shocked expression and can't bring himself to look any closer. "I'm sorry," he croaks. "I didn't know how to tell you before."

Without the keys, the doors to the pick-up aren't locked, but the driver's side door still sticks like a bitch. Dean wrenches it open with maybe a bit more force than necessary, sliding into the bucket seat and leaning down to trigger the ignition. They'll need to dump the truck soon. It's probably already got a police report filing it as stolen.

Fiddling with the wires also gives him an excuse to avoid looking at Sam, so he misses it the first time Sam says it.

"We should go back." 

Dean sits up so fast he almost cracks his head on the bottom of the steering wheel. "What?"

"I said we should go back." Sam's not looking at him either, staring instead down at his hands in his lap where he sits in the passenger seat. "That's home, Dean, and even if—" Sam breaks off, and yeah, no need to say it out loud. Even if that house won't be home without Cas. "Even if," Sam continues. "We should still go back. Clean it up nice. Make sure—make sure it honors Cas's memory." Sam catches his eyes and Dean has to swallow. "Don't you think," Sam asks, "that if anyone deserves that, it's Cas?"

Dean's not sure how much Cas even cared about the house. Judging from the room of broken furniture the very first time Dean set foot in it, Cas trashing the place wasn't a new impulse. But Cas said he liked the colors, that garish purple and the samples of eye-splitting teal Dean helped him pick out what feels like a lifetime ago. Cas put effort to turn the attic into a personal sanctuary, random gong and decadent bedding and all. In a way, he supposes, Cas never had a home before that house either. It feel wrong to just leave it. To walk away and pretend like Cas never existed, like he died for nothing and with no one to mourn him.

"I guess I did promise him I'd give him a call."


	14. Chapter 14

It's a full week by the time Dean pulls up behind the Impala, still parked along the curb where Dean left it ten days ago. They ditched the pick-up in Luverne and got Bobby to loan them a shitty mid-eighties Nova. The damn thing maxed out at sixty-eight on the highway, shaking and rattling in her chassis over every tiny bump and crack in the road. But it kept them legal and as much as it might be warranted, Dean just can't bring himself to hate a Chevy. 

The house looks exactly as Dean last left it. An entire wall and half the roof's caved in on one side. The windows hang cockeyed in their tracks, some with cracks splitting the panes from the force of the earthquake. Tucked up high beneath the eaves, the stained glass window looks like it escaped the damage, but it still looks wrong. Dark. No candlelight and no music to bring its kaleidoscope colors to life. 

Inside looks little better. Broken dish shards still strew across the kitchen floor, cabinet doors hanging open, some bent on their hinges. A charred circle demarcates the middle of the main room, goat's blood dried and flaky on the floor. More scorch marks discolor the walls and chip black gouges around the arch to the hallway, where the lighting struck it.

"Whoa," Sam breathes, and Dean can only nod. It looks like a war zone. It was one, in its own way.

Inspecting the rest of the house takes time as they go slow with care, picking around the debris. Apart from the loose and splintered boards next to the hole in the house, the second floor seems stable. Not much was kept up here to break. Knowing its futile, a fool's errand that's only asking for heartbreak, Dean slowly ascends the spiral stairs up to the attic. The door's closed but not locked, and he pushes it open with the gentle reverence of walking over somebody's grave.

They haven't found a body.

Without light, Dean's eyes take time to adjust. The grey sunlight outside barely helps, but soon the dark shapes resolve into familiar objects. There, the low, wide bed, stacked with pillows. The seating area beneath the window. The candles, the stereo, the various book and artifacts Cas keeps up here that are too dangerous or too sentimental to live in the sitting room. In a far corner, a shadow shifts, out of place and strange.

"What—" Dean starts when the figure moves in front of the window and light hits its face.

The damage Raphael wreaked is noticeable. Even with the time to heal, shiny, pink skin of burn recovery marks Castiel's cheeks. One ear looks mangled, the once-smooth curve bumpy, dimpled in places where the cartilage hasn't regenerated yet. Circling his neck and the other stretches of skin his tattoos covered, deep scars now score the skin, vibrant, angry red. They look thickest where the links were severed, like someone purposefully gouged those lines deepest, reconnecting the binding. "Hello, Dean," Cas rasps, gravely, head tilting to one side and smoke puffing from his mouth. A lit joint hangs lax between two of his fingers, the ember too dull for Dean to have noticed it at first.

There should be words for this moment, but what they are, Dean doesn't know. After a long moment, he turns to the open door and bellows, "Sam!"

 

* * *

 

In the end, the three of them wind up sitting together on his bed, Cas in the center, reclined against the pillows and with an ashtray in his lap. When Sam bolted up the stairs earlier, the sight of Cas trapped him in the doorway, face going slack in shock and relief and concern. Then with three giant strides forward, he swooped Cas up into a bone-crushing hug. Cas whimpered, every bare patch of skin either scabbed over or scaly, peeling like a burn and probably just as painful. "It's fine now. The first few days were the hardest," Cas assured them, which isn't reassuring at all in Dean's book.

Being back in this bed, the silken sheets under his cheek, and the air thick with incense and pot smoke, Dean wants nothing more than to go to sleep and stay like that for days. But he forces himself to stay awake when Sam asks Cas what happened.

"It was nothing," Cas says, dismissing Sam's skeptical eyebrows and Dean's flat disbelief with a lazy waft of his hand. "Raphael arrived. He tried to kill me. Dean completed the spell, and then—Raphael left." Cas shrugs, body language telegraphing an apathetic what-can-you-do. "I suspect my actions didn't interfere with their plans as much as they originally feared."

Sam sits up straight. "Wait. Wait. Hold up. You don't think we stopped the Apocalypse, do you?"

Cas slants a studious glare down at his lap and actually _picks his fingernail_ , and Dean has a hard time justifying to himself how he ever thought Cas was some kind of skilled liar. Maybe that's why most of the time Cas holds himself so still. He probably learned body language from stage actors or something, given how much he gives away any time he moves a muscle. "The Apocalypse has long been foretold. Stopping it entirely, rather than just removing you from your previous predicament, was always unlikely."

"But Azazel is dead," Sam protests.

"Azazel's continued existence might not be mandatory in raising Lucifer," Cas snaps. "I can't say. And I'm not in a place right now to do much of anything anyway, if you haven't noticed. Even to fix myself a fresh cup of coffee," Cas adds petulantly, reclining against the pillows with a soft hiss.

"He said something," Sam says, chewing on his lower lip, brows heavy with concentration. "Right before we fought. He said my fate was sealed the moment he gave me his blood as a baby. The one they wanted was Dean. To get Dean to—'fall in line', I think he said."

Two pairs of eyes turn to him, Sam's tensed at the edges in concern and Cas's narrowed into hypercritical slits. "What?" Dean objects, itchy under the intense double-stare.

"You have an interesting mark on your soul, Dean, that's a recent addition," Cas observes, low and poignant. "A crossroads deal, by my best guess. It claims you for Hell."

Dean swallows. Cas looking at him like that—knowing that Cas can literally see his soul—squirms his stomach around something hot and self-conscious and fluttery. "You can see that?"

"Yes," Cas intones darkly, and pulls another drag off his joint. "'And it is written'," he quotes, "that the First Seal shall be broken when a righteous man sheds blood in Hell. As he breaks, so shall It break.' I don't think we've stopped the Apocalypse. I think you may have begun it, Dean."

"What?" both he and Sam say at once. Dean glances between them, holding his palms up in surrender. "No. No. I didn't. I—I just wanted Sam back."

Cas gives another one of those languid shrugs. "I may be wrong. But that would explain why Raphael left so suddenly. If the plan all along was not for Azazel to corrupt Sam further, but to kill Sam, and in doing so, to assure that you sold your soul to Hell to break the First Seal. Time will tell, I suppose."

For someone so gung-ho about stopping the Apocalypse a few weeks ago, Cas seems to be taking the twist of fate way too easily now. "And, what, that's it?" Dean disputes. "'Time will tell'?"

"I'm tired," Cas bitches, lips pursing into what Dean generously pretends is not a pout. "And _sore_. And as there is no known way to break a crossroads deal once it's been made, I don't see what being alarmist about it right now accomplishes."

"We still have a year," Sam interrupts, before Dean can thank Cas so much for caring, holding his palms up for peace. "We still have time to figure this out. It doesn't need to be tonight."

 

* * *

 

They don't figure out anything that night, or the next night, or the next. Stringing a tarp over the hole in the ceiling and patching garbage bags over the blown-out section of wall consume their free time over the next week. Cas heals, slowly and prickly, demanding coffee and bitching about the flakes of dead skin that molt from his arms and neck, revealing soft pink patches of new, baby skin. With the damage done extending into his Grace, his healing ability is limited and the indignity of needing to recover at a far more human rate apparently grates on Cas's nerves.

Sam happily reclaims his bedroom on the second floor, his poster and rug and curtains all exactly as he left them. Dean feels less enthused sleeping in his own bedroom. The first ten weeks they lived here he spent sleeping in this bed, and if it was lonely then, it feels lonelier now. Cas might as well be across the continent for how inaccessible the attic bedroom seems now.

Cas is alive, and Sam is alive, and Dean has a year still to spend with them. He should be happy. But he's not. The new boundaries with Sam come easy half the time, and awkward and tense the other half. And despite the fact that he sees Cas every day, almost constantly—brooding in the kitchen drinking coffee or sitting at the table debating some topic with Sam or standing out by the rose bushes, silently watching Dean haul lumber from the roof of the Impala to reframe a new wall—there's an ache in the space Cas once filled in his life, in his heart.

Sam puts up with Dean's moping for about two weeks, and then, on the muggy first day of June, he snags the remote and punches the off button just as Malena is about to tell her ex-fiancé and newly-revealed half-brother Juan Carlos that she's pregnant with his baby. "Aw, come on! I was watching that," Dean gripes.

Unapologetic, Sam drops onto the couch next to him. "Whatever, Dean. You don't even speak Spanish."

"Seventy percent of communication is body language, dude," Dean snorts, and counts it as a victory when Sam fights back a smile.

"You'll live," Sam says dryly, then unleashes the big guns, "Especially if you stopped sulking around like your date ditched you at prom and just go talk to Cas."

Yeah. No. Dean's pretty sure that's going to do the opposite of making him feel better. The fact that Sam has (a) noticed and (b) decided to talk to him about it should be a sign how bad it's gotten lately. But denial, avoidance, and repression have been friends to Dean for a long time, and he doesn't know if he's ready to kick them to the curb just yet. Staring hard at his lap, he picks at the seam on his jeans and mumbles, "Me and Cas don't got anything to talk about." Sam lets out an annoyed huff and Dean's shoulders hunch defensively. "What? It's true. What the hell are we supposed to talk about, Sam? The guy's not human. We can't talk about stuff like favorite food or hobbies, or, what, like, political views? 'This one time at band camp'?"

Sam gives him disbelieving look.

Dean throws his hands up. "What? I don't know what people talk about on dates. I've been on, like, none ever. Unless you count thirty minutes flirting in a bar and two hours in the back of the Impala a date." He waggles his eyebrows lasciviously, because that's just part of the script here.

Except Sam's not doing his lines right. "That's my point," he says instead, acting all reasonable instead of grossed out, with this stupid smile twitching the corners of his mouth, like he knows something. "Sure, Cas isn't human. And maybe he's weird and doesn't know everything when it comes to dating. But. You don't either, Dean. Your hobbies include hunting monsters and watching telenovellas in languages you can't understand. You can do the latter with Cas, and the former . . . " Sam shrugs. "At least you don't have to give Cas the speech about the supernatural being real?"

Okay, so Sam might have a point. But still. It's not that simple. No matter how much Dean wishes it was. "But I can't—" He grunts around a lost sound and stares helplessly at the blank television. "I don't get to have things, man."

"What?"

He glances over at Sam, somehow guilty to remind Sam, even though none of it's Sam's fault. "I can't have things. People. You know this, man. That's not what our life is."

"Dean," Sam starts, eyebrows all twisted up. "That's just—. Dean, that's stupid."

The gravitational axis of the entire world shifts sideways by about thirty degrees. Dean blinks. "What?"

"It's stupid," Sam says again. "Of course you can have people. I want you to have someone. Someone you—"

And whoa, whoa. A word that begins with L and ends with O-V-E just got way too close to coming out of Sam's mouth. Dean feels his eye bulge. He tilts his head to give Sam a warning glare, and fuck everything, but he probably picked up that gesture from Cas. "Whoa! Easy there, cowboy. Hold your horses."

Sam rolls his eyes. "Okay, well, whatever you feel for Cas. I want you to have someone. You deserve to have someone." Sam pauses and then nudges a gentle elbow against Dean's side. "So is this why you never had any girlfriends?"

The question's uncomfortable only because it's true. "Maybe. I don't know, man. With Cassie, it was hunting. And with everyone else . . . it was the same thing. It was Dad or it was you, and I just—. Something always came up." Dean swallows. "Something else always had to come first."

"The other stuff doesn't have to come first," Sam says, soft at least, and not like it's fucking obvious. "If you want Cas, then . . . I say put him first for a while."

Except the last time Dean did that, everything went to Hell. Sort of almost literally. He shakes his head and looks down at his hands. "I don't know if I can do that."

"Well, then, maybe they both come first," Sam suggests, and gives Dean a tight, sympathetic wince when Dean just stares back at him, confused. "Cas and hunting. Cas and, and me. I'm never going to make you choose between me and him, Dean. Cas is also important to me. And this house, living here . . ."

"Yeah," Dean sighs. "We haven't had a home since you were a baby."

"Yeah. It's nice. I like it. I want to—I want to keep it. And okay, yes, if Cas is right and there is still the Apocalypse coming, then stuff is going to come up. We're going to have to deal with it. But it doesn't have to be either-or. Cas is part of the deal now for me. I'd like him to be."

He thinks he knows what Sam is getting at. But it's so foreign, so unbelievable, so much what Dean wants, that he can barely get the words out. "Cas is family."

"What," Sam teases, smiling wide enough that Dean can see all of his teeth, "are you planning to propose?"

And, Jesus, his heart hits the back of his throat so hard he almost chokes. Sam, what a dick, just laughs at him. "What? No!" It is way too early for that. Way too early, no matter what Cas said about wanting to spend the rest of Dean's life with him. "It's just—you said Cas is part of it. So . . . that makes Cas family. And family comes first."

"Right," Sam agrees, amusement curling through his voice like he's humoring Dean. "Family comes first. If that's how you need to look at it."

It's how Dean _wants_ to look at it. If both Sam and Cas are family, it means neither competes against the other. It means Dean owes them both loyalty, can give them both priority, and mediate whatever disagreements arise in the future in a way that keeps the three of them together. It means for once Dean might actually get everything he wants.

Rising to his feet, after a second's hesitation, he leans down and loops an arm around his baby brother's—best friend's—shoulders. Sam, the big girl, claps one of his giant paws around the back of Dean's neck in return. It puts his mouth right against Dean's ear. "I just want you to be happy. Jerk."

Dean playfully pushes him away, faking disgust. The urge to call Sam a girl smearing his girlish feelings all over everything sits at the tip of Dean's tongue. But he reels it in at the last second to instead cough out a gruff, "Ditto," and then tacks on, "Bitch," at the end. Just because they're trying to leave some stuff from the past behind doesn't mean losing everything. Some of the old status quo is never going to change. Based on Sam's grin, Dean thinks they're both on board with that. 

 

* * *

 

Half due to physical necessity and half due to Sam and Dean's insistence, Cas has been slow to start accepting clients again while he recovers. The lack of visitors renders the house quiet, intimate once again between the three of them, like it was during those few, long ago weeks around Christmas. Dean likes the peace. But he worries how the inactivity impacts Cas. Too much free time seems to chafe at Cas in similar ways it can chafe at Dean. It draws Cas too far out of the present and back into the dark recesses of his own head. Not that Dean would call Cas uncharacteristically reserved, not when Cas is the leading expert on poker faces. But in the last few weeks since Dean returned with Sam, something in Cas somehow seems quieter that usual. Toned down. Like a radio station one half-point off on the dial. Whenever Dean looks at him, he can't help thinking the word _melancholy_. 

Without clients forcing Cas to socialize, he's started to spend the majority of his time in the attic, showing his face only when whim dictates it. Dean tries to wait him out through the evening, and when that doesn't work, Dean defaults to bribery. A fresh batch of chocolate chip cookies sits cooling on the kitchen table, warm molten sugar and butter permeating the house. Except Cas doesn't take the bait. 

So fine. Dean can do the direct approach. Piling the cookies onto a plate, he mounts the stairs to the attic, footfalls heavy so Cas knows he's coming. 

The bedroom door stands open when Dean hits the landing. Cas sits in his usual place, cross-legged on a pillow beneath the window, candles surrounding him. His face tilts up, watching the street, or maybe the sky. Knocking against the door frame to snag Cas's attention, Dean proffers the plate up on his palm like a waiter. "Hey." 

Cas turns his head towards him. "Hello."

"Brought you the kitchen's blue plate special. In case you're hungry. Or whatever you feel when you decide you want to eat something for once."

"I believe the slang term for it is 'the munchies'," Cas says, just ever so helpful. "Marijuana is a known appetite stimulant. And that plate is yellow, Dean, not blue."

Despite the fact that Cas's sense of humor can be unpredictable at best, Dean likes to think he's gotten good at reading the subtle tells. The quirk of an eyebrow or the suggestion of a smile secreted in one corner of Cas's mouth. Right now Cas's expression hangs in morose neutrality and Dean's palms itch with the urge to touch him, to reach out in comfort. Maybe card his fingers through the thick strands of Cas's hair or touch his mouth to the paper-thin skin at the corner of Cas's eye. But he resists acting out the urge. That was their mistake before, when action preceded negotiation. This time, Dean wants them to be on the same page, whatever page that turns out to be. Even if it means just friendship or roommates, the memories of lying in that bed together the closest Dean'll get to experiencing the real thing again. 

"Whatever. Don't worry about it. It's just a saying." 

Moving into the room, Dean sets the plate down on the table next to the bed and forgets completely how to stand. He can't figure out what to do with his hands or his posture or his face. First he cocks out a hip and hooks his thumbs in his belt loops, then decides to opt for a more casual stance, hands sliding into pockets. Then, overcome with a fit of teenage self-consciousness over clammy hands, he scrapes his sweat-soaked palms against his thighs just to be sure.

In Dean's mind, there are two ways to go about this. The first is the adult way: a little charm and a little seduction and some open, honest discussion about relationship expectations and emotional needs. And then there's Dean's way: bad jokes and word vomit, served with a heaping scoop of panic. From the confused line digging between Cas's brows, Dean is hitting solidly in the middle of the second one. The grin he gives Cas in return is probably too wide and too forced. "So."

Earlier this afternoon, Sam had managed to sound all wise and sensible, talking about feelings, but following his advice is turning out to be fucking impossible. Maybe where Dean's screwing up is trying to do this sober. A couple shots, or hell, let's go with half the bottle, of whiskey might improve his chances. Not that Cas seems to mind. He watches Dean as if oblivious to the awkwardness. Like he could spend his entire existence observing and yet want for nothing. At nighttime, he does the same. Countless times Dean woke up to Cas sitting by the window, music thrumming around him, gaze fixed on what lays beyond the colored glass. The street outside is nothing special: a couple other houses, some trees, a sidewalk. An hour of that view and you'd think Cas would get bored, let alone after years of it. 

"What do you do up here all the time by yourself anyway?" Dean blurts out, unplanned. But now that it's out there, he's curious.

"I contemplate whether true personal freedom can exist," Cas responds, monotone and contemplative. "Or if we're all just victims preyed upon by predictive and inevitable experiences, forced to make the same choices again and again, playing empty parts in a broader, but ultimately meaningless, existence."

And if that isn't just a fucking mouthful. Dean arches his eyebrows up. " _Seriously?_ "

A sheepish expression lowers Cas's eyes to the floor. "Unfortunately. Yes. I find the intersection between fate and free will interesting, and the topic has been on my mind of late. But I also think about other things. Much of the time I listen to music. Sometimes I listen to you and Sam downstairs, talking or eating or watching television. I dislike the silence." He brushes two fingertips across his temple. "The absence the songs of the Host left. I find music, or you and Sam conversing, to be a comfort in those moments." 

Dean always suspected something like that was true. Cas has had way too perfect timing one too many times, dropping in on conversations when he was least welcomed. Usually when Dean was trying to bitch about him to Sam. "I knew it," he crows, jabbing a vindicated fingers at Cas's head. But he smiles as he says it, telegraphing in every way he knows how to show Cas that he's teasing. "Why, you little spying sneak." It comes out sounding half-proud.

Rolling his shoulders as if to shrug it off, Cas keeps his eyes downcast, but Dean doesn't think he's imagining the way Cas's posture relaxes some, or the way a natural smile tugs up one corner of Cas's mouth, a shadow of pleased amusement. "It wasn't my choice to have more sensitive hearing than the average human. If you have an objection, speak to my Father. The flaws in intelligent design are His."

"Right," Dean jokes. "Just give me the number to God's personal line and I'll get right on that. Right after I ask Him where the hell the platypus came from."

Whatever small amount of ground they've gained with each other, Dean's big mouth and his even bigger foot jammed into it slides them right back to the bottom. Cas's chin touches his chest, shoulders slumping. "God is gone," he whispers, "and I don't think He's coming back."

"Hey." It isn't right, the weight that seems to hang over Cas. Like guilt. Like loneliness. Struggling onto the floor, Dean has to grab one ankle and then the other in order to pretzel into the weird yoga position Cas favors. Hip bones shouldn't be able to bend like that. But he manages it. Sitting close enough that their kneecaps kiss, he ducks his head down to try to catch Cas's eyes. "Hey," he says again, soft. "What's up, Doc?"

"It's not fair," Cas says, and then turns his head to the side to huff a bitter laugh. "Of course it's not. 'God is dead. And we have killed him. How shall we comfort ourselves, the murderers of all murderers? Who will wipe this blood off us?'"

"Sure," he allows, trying to roll with it, and gets a wry, if tiny, smile out of Cas.

"Friedrich Nietzsche, Dean."

"Gesundheit," Dean deadpans, and Cas seems to forget that he's in the middle of being despairing and maudlin long enough to give Dean a pissy, narrow-eyed head shake. Dean counts it as a win. When all else fails, distract by being a dick, that's his motto. Or at least try to break the tension. He knocks their knees together in encouragement, leaning even closer. "So come on. Sharing is caring. What's up?"

Cas gets moments like these where he won't respond right away. Maybe it's because he's trying to avoid the question. Maybe it's because Cas just doesn't know what to say, how to find the right words, the specific combination that will mean exactly what he wants to mean. Dean's learned; it just takes patience to wait Cas out. "I," Cas begins, but then stops again, biting his lip. "I don't want you to go to Hell," he says finally. "I don't want the Apocalypse. I don't want prophecies or, or _fate_. I don't want you to die, Dean," he confesses quietly. "You deserve better than that."

This time when Cas looks up, Dean struggles to hold his eyes. A lump sits thick in his throat. "I still got a year. That's something." But not much of one. Not when Dean wants—hopes—that they might be able to be something with each other finally. "It was my choice, Cas. I told the same thing to Sam. Maybe it is fate, I don't know. But then I still chose it. I signed up for this."

"I'd fight for you," Cas whispers. Like a pledge. Like an oath. "When the hellhounds come, I'd lay siege to Hell if I had to. I'd want to. To bring you back."

They haven't talked any of this yet. This is all action instead of discussion. But Dean's always been more of a doer than a talker. And after Cas saying something like that, he can't help himself. They got to at least be somewhere near the same chapter of the book, if not the identical page. Tilting his chin down, he nudges his lips to Cas's in a kiss, one, two, mouth soft and sentimental. Cas shudders around a breath. When he pulls back, Cas's eyes are closed, lower lip quivering. 

"Dean," Cas gasps. Small, crystalline tears cling to his lashes when Cas opens his eyes, and Dean's heart cramps. "I don't like this feeling, Dean," Cas trembles. "I don't know what it is, this—this _longing_."

Reaching up, Dean gives into the urge from earlier and smooths the longer tufts of hair behind Cas's ear. "For Heaven?" he guesses, even though he knows that's not it. At least not all of it. Cas might speak of his family with a bone-chilled anger, but just because you're mad at someone doesn't mean you still don't miss them, or miss what you wanted them to be to you. That's the part the sucks. 

Cas shakes his head, eyes wide. "For you."

 _I'm right here_ , he wants to say. But he knows that's bullshit. Cas has been right here this whole time too, and that hasn't stopped Dean from hugging his pillow in bed at night, wishing it was Cas's bed, Cas's sheets, Cas himself in Dean's arms. Dean was the one who told Cas they couldn't do this anymore. He circles his hand around to cup the back of Cas's neck. "Did you, uh, you didn't hear what Sam and I were talking about earlier this afternoon, did you?"

The way Cas drops his eyes is all the answer Dean needs. "Just a little," Cas admits quietly. "It seemed private. I purposefully made the music too loud."

And good. Good. That's something, at least. Sure, they're probably going to need to do this the adult way at some point and have that discussion about relationship expectations and personal boundaries. They're going to need to figure out a way to navigate the imbalance that Cas's powers create. Map out Dean's need for privacy and for honesty. Find the right amount of early commitment that's somewhere between six months and ten million years. They'll need to figure out a way to deal with Cas's longevity and Dean's very prominent lack of same right now. But at the dawn of the Apocalypse, watching an angel cry for him, fuck if Dean is going to rule out anything out of the realm of possibility.

"I. Cas. Look," he tries, way too gruff and way too aggressive from the way Cas's eyes grow glassy and wet. He strokes a thumb across Cas's cheek, brushing away a stray tear. It's like he needs a running start to get the words out. "I don't want to drag this out into some great big _thing_ so I'm, I'm just going to try to come straight out with it."

"Are you leaving?" Cas whispers.

"What? No! No. The opposite." He lifts his left hand to cup Cas's other cheek, cradling his face in his palms, and then gets struck by how presumptuous that might be. "I mean, if it's cool with you. That we stay." Cas nods, eyes wide and too blue, straining into Dean's touch, and Dean blows out a long breath, half relief and half nerves. His heart pounds. "So. Like," he says, and that's when Cas tips his head forward and presses their foreheads together. And somehow that single point of contact is all it takes. Without a doubt, this is where Dean wants to be. Right here is where he belongs. He swallows and dredges up the courage to ask the question that changes everything. "You want to go on a date with me, Cas?" 

"Where?" Cas asks, like that's the important thing here. Like he expects Dean's got a plan or something. "I've told you before, Dean," Cas adds, and all of a sudden there's that _tone_ , that sly undercurrent Cas always gets when he's fucking around. "I dislike leaving the house and I dislike riding in motor vehicles—"

"Yeah, yeah, yeah," Dean interrupts, relief and joy and disbelief making his blood sing. "And you dislike people and phone calls and the fact that I got to sleep or you got to wear clothes. You're a real tough bastard to impress, you know that."

Cas tilts his head a fraction to the side. It squishes their noses together uncomfortably, but it's worth it when Dean can feel Cas's smile stretch against his cheek. "You always impress me, Dean." The sincerity Cas shoves into things like that, like he could never believe anything else, still makes Dean's stomach flip-flop in giddy panic. But it's a feeling he thinks he could get used to. 

The kiss this time lasts longer, deeper, the slide of Cas's tongue along his prickling at his scalp and shivering goosebumps across his arms. Cas breaks it way too soon, hands curving over Dean's knees, pushing him away gently. "Don't pout, Dean," Cas chides, mouth slick-red and grinning. "We're very different, you and I. And with everything that's yet to come—there's much to work out. I just want to make sure you're certain."

And yeah, they are, and yeah, there is. But a long time ago, some weird fucked-up junkie faith healer tried to tell Dean how there's some stuff worth believing in, even when it's hard. Maybe especially when it's hard. 

Dean smiles back at Cas. "Positive. I got faith."


	15. Epilogue

**_September, 2008_ **

The stench from the corpse hardly registers. Humans possess a disquietude surrounding death that presents with physical complaints. Castiel shares neither problem. Death is the natural answer to life. Why cellular deterioration and putrefaction should be considered more offensive when it involves a human body, as opposed to, say, rotted meat that fetors past its expiration date in the fridge or the fumes produced by humanity's factories and vehicles, Castiel cannot comprehend. Some odors humanity simply accepts as inevitable and others they cringe from, regardless of strength or actual smell.

Dean, for example, where he rests in the shallow grave, smells sweet. Castiel finished repairing his organs and sealing his skin four days ago, to the best of his ability, given the rate of decomposition and his own limits of strength. At first he and Sam tried to keep Dean's body in the house, with Castiel healing the cadaver anew every day to keep it prepared for Dean's return. But dead cells operate differently to living ones, and much of Castiel's abilities rely on the human body's own ability to heal. Besides, the sight of Dean's decayed flesh every morning caused Sam distress. It became preferable to bury the body in the backyard until Dean's soul could be reunited with it.

The backyard is where Castiel rests now, waiting. It could be minutes or an hour before Dean rises from his grave, but Castiel doesn't mind the downtime. A blanket stretches across the grass beneath him. The sun overhead blazes with late summer heat. It feels pleasant to this body, baking his skin golden brown and melting his muscles into lax relaxation. Best of all, the Bose headphones Dean gave him as a present last Christmas accommodate his preference for a constant soundtrack.

An expensive gift, he first tried to reject them when Dean dropped the plastic packaging in his lap. Its only festive decoration was a sticker with one of humanity's terrible representations of an angel doodled as an exaggerated cartoon. The label read TO: CAS FROM: SANTA. But it was obviously Dean's handwriting.

"You know I have few opinions on material goods," Castiel had tried to defend. "You didn't need to buy me something expensive."

"Oh, trust me," Dean had leered, his arm braced around Castiel's shoulder, smiling in that particular way that was both maddeningly attractive and inexplicably irritating. "Totally worth it. This is going to be the gift that just keeps on giving." Castiel hadn't been sure at the time if he should be offended or not.

He restored Dean's soul some two weeks ago, but the damage done by bacteria on Earth and torture in Hell forced Castiel to _slow his roll_ (an idiom he enjoys). Dean required time: to heal; for Castiel to replenish his energies to aid in that process; for the scars of Hell to fade well enough that Dean's soul will be able to function on this plane. His forty-odd years in Hell didn't pervert Dean fully into a demon, but it was near enough.

Not to say that Dean isn't still beautiful. In Castiel's opinion, one he keeps to himself, for both Winchesters are prone to take things of this nature too personally, the black fissures of corruption add to Dean's original beauty. As the dark reveals the light more bright, and the thorns the rose more sweet, so too do the furrows of fury and violence accentuate the fertile splendor of Dean's soul.

Dean asked him once to describe his soul. "Dirt," Castiel had said, and a starburst of hurt, indignation, offense, self-loathing, and rejection had flared through Dean's soul, simultaneous and contradictory. It was fascinating. "Growing things," Castiel then tried instead. "New grass after winter, and crops to feed the village, and great, ancient oak trees." The elucidation seemed to appease Dean.

The truth is Castiel lacks both the ability and the vocabulary to accurately model an image of Dean's soul. For while he uses term _sees_ , the way he perceives Dean's soul isn't an act of vision. Humans lack the appropriate senses to comprehend it.

Maybe Dean will understand better now that he has experience with non-corporeal existence on another plane. If Dean will retain any of his memories from Hell, that is. Castiel discarded the worst of them, and Dean's mind will surely forget or repress those that, while of lesser degree, still cause great discomfort, for no creatures are as resilient and adaptive as humans. Even if Dean remembers nothing, Castiel will still feel a great gladness and gratitude to have Dean alive and on Earth once more.

The house is strangely empty without his presence, the condition worsened perhaps by Sam's now less frequent company since meeting his girlfriend. Castiel has yet to meet her, but from Sam's improved spirits, he can't find a reason to resent her consumption of Sam's time.

It was difficult with Sam, in the first months after Dean's death and condemnation to Hell. The plan since before Dean's demise was for Castiel to enter Hell to retrieve him. Sam wished to come along, and to leave immediately, but that was foolishness. Both the armies of Heaven and Hell would have stood against them had they tried to free Dean before he broke the First Seal.

As it was, when the time came, Castiel simply marched into the Pit, a guard of his brothers and sisters positioned like a wall to narrow the path. No one stopped him. No one tried. No one but Dean himself. He would have escaped Hell without giving or receiving one blow had Dean only been more cooperative. Dean struck out at him when he tried to guide Dean away from the rack, with a violence that was more like possession, demanding yet protective, desirous yet belligerent. The Claim Dean's talons clawed into his Grace will never heal, but Castiel likes the physical manifestation it took when he returned to Earth: Dean's handprint, like a brand, flush above his heart.

Soon Castiel will be able to rest Dean's true hand within the outline of the mark, with Dean's soft, human skin touching his. He misses that too. Currently his headphones play 2 Live Crew's song "Me So Horny" on repeat, its strong, predictable, monotonous beat meditative and calming. Castiel finds the lyrics relatable too. Achieving orgasm via his hand or through the aid of plastic toys pales in comparison to the pleasure and joy of creating the experience with Dean. He looks forward to re-discovering that process as soon as Dean desires. It is also true that he will care for Dean for a long time, in death and beyond it. A month from now Sam and Dean will have been living with him for two years, and he can't imagine an existence that excludes their companionship.

Dirt shifts suddenly in the grave. Pausing the song, Castiel slides the headphones to rest around his neck and extends a hand towards the wiggling fingertips attempting to break free. With a forceful heave, he grips Dean's wrist and hauls Dean out from the grave to his waist. Sweat slicks Dean's hair and skin, sealing the thin t-shirt to the center of his chest and under his arms. Dean is also shivering, despite the summer heat.

"C-Ca-as?" Dean's eyelids flutter, unaccustomed to the bright light of day after so long underground.

With gentle fingers, Castiel brushes the smears of dirt from Dean's cheeks, and smiles. "Hello, Dean."

" _Cas_." The relief that emanates from Dean's voice both warms and concerns Castiel. He helps Dean to free his legs from the dirt, grasping Dean's upper arms as Dean tugs himself onto the grass with a grip around Castiel's waist. "Cas," Dean sobs again, tightening his arms and pushing his face into Castiel's stomach. As if unaware of it, he mumbles, "Even when I dreamed of you, the sweetest dream would never do." His voice cracks around the lyrics. "I still missed you, baby. Missed you so much."

Castiel does what he can to soothe Dean, trailing his fingers through Dean's damp hair. "It's all right, Dean. You're alive. The plan worked." 

"Where's Sam?" Dean asks, or something akin to that nature. The exact words are hard to understand with Dean's mouth still muffled by Castiel's clothing.

"Waiting for your phone call before he returns. He had concerns that you would not be—'finished cooking', I think he said, before you awoke. Your decayed state during death alarmed him."

Dean makes a sound somewhere between a laugh and a choke. "Why, why the hell did you bury me?" he asks several seconds later, once it seems that some of the initial shock of being alive has decreased. "I almost suffocated trying to climb out of there."

Truthfully Dean's eventual need to breathe hadn't occurred to him when he placed Dean back in the dirt after the final healing. Of course the fact that humans require oxygen seems obvious in retrospect. "It was necessary," he hedges, and receives a sharp pinch to his side in return. "for the healing to—Ow! _Dean_."

"Dick," Dean grumbles, but with no real rancor, Castiel is pleased to note. "And now that I can breathe, I'm also fucking parched. And, man, _starving_. Is there pie, Cas? Gimme pie. You better have pie."

"Yes, Dean," Castiel says, fond and content. "There is pie. There is also much to discuss. Stand up now. We have work to do."

**Author's Note:**

> When I was writing this fic, I kept thinking of it as: what if Season Two and Season Four had a baby, and gave it to Season Six to baby sit once or twice? P.S. Cas's house is [a real thing that really exists](http://i.imgur.com/gdKJoQR.png).


End file.
